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Skingrad Refugee Camp, near the Colovian Rangers’ encampment, evening of 8th Seed 4E208CE.
As much as Daro’Vasora hated to admit it, but she was actually enjoying seeing everyone again. The last time they’d all been together and not fearing for their lives had been up in the expedition camp on the peaks of the Jerall Mountains, and while that felt like a lifetime ago, she had grown to know and appreciate members of her party and reaffirming her unlikely friendship with the likes of Judena and Latro, and perhaps most shocking of all, Brynja. She had the lute she had given Latro back in Imperial City in hand and was idly strumming to some of the songs she was most acquainted with that didn’t require much in the way of technical prowess; it was mainly to fill the air with song and help set people at ease, including, ideally, Durantel, the haughty Altmer prick that she half expected to replace his broken flute by pulling it out of his ass. Somehow, he even seemed less insufferable than usual, and against all odds and probability, actually seemed to make new acquaintances of his own, such as a Breton girl who had some Nord-like fairness to her. She apparently had a goat, brought to her by a blond Nord, they seemingly had met before as he took a seat beside her, even handing her a pair of boots, though he certainly oozed of charm and a degree of sleeziness, and another Breton girl that wore armour and looked like she was quite out of place amongst the riff-raff. The Khajiit didn’t bother inquiring who these new faces were, she was sure they’d make themselves known in time if they weren’t temporary additions to the camp.
Daro’Vasora had been quite thrilled to present Latro back to the group as a whole, explaining he was a Ranger and had managed to save the lute she’d given him. She didn’t bother trying to hide her fondness for him and they sat close to one another, and to show even she wasn’t to be shown up by Durantel, she invited Gregor and Jaraleet to join them since the kindly Imperial healer did take concern for her well being after her daring defeat of two of those piloted suits, and Jaraleet was… well, capable. He didn’t say much and seemed to just come and go as he pleased.
Rhea was keeping largely to herself, although she caught her glancing at the people she considered her own with a look of… what, exactly? Guilt, anxiety? She seemed bent on ensuring everyone was safe and looked after to atone for what happened since the ruins, but here she was, probably having all of that catch up to her. Nobody heard much of Count Hassildor over the past couple of days, and even the guards seemed to be less assertive than usual. Maybe it was the calm before the storm, or everyone was finally admitting to themselves this refugee crisis wasn’t going to resolve itself. The Khajiit didn’t care, overly much; the Rangers managed to secure fairly regular supplies from people in turn for their efforts, which included handing out supplies that they had “liberated” from the Dwemer out to refugee groups, and showing those interested the newly captured technology, including the two suits Daro’Vasora took credit for capturing. She barely thought of the Mer she’d blinded and killed in the one; bastard had it coming, along with the rest of his shitty cronies. She just was giving them a taste of what they’d already been doing, it wouldn’t cost her sleep.
By Baan Dar, she was going to take credit for her actions. It felt good to do something, what, heroic? Who knew? Who cared? The Khajiit was riding a high, and she knew that wherever Zegol was, he’d be smiling down on her for picking herself up and getting things done. Daro’Vasora was not someone to sit around when opportunity knocked.
“So, not sure if you guys noticed the two fancy Dwemer suits over there? I did stop them, with help, of course. A bunch of frost mages and a pair of particularly strapping Argonians later, and out comes the soul gems, but my, it was exciting. It felt good to get a few licks in, to show those Dwemer assholes that they aren’t as invincible as they want you to believe. We even went down the ruins after them, flushed them out one by one. For people called the Deep Elves, they sure were inadequate at holding off the Rangers. The rest of you should sign up, beats festering in this depressing dump. By the way, who are those guys?” she pointed with her toe towards Rhona, Nani, and Calen. “I’m not sharing my rations; Brynja already eats enough for three of us, she’s a growing woman who needs to crush a few dwarf necks.” Daro’Vasora said, scrumming out the chords for A Daggerfall Mistress, which was a bawdy tavern song out West that made its way to the capital, to lighten the mood somewhat.
Brynja grunted as she passed a bowl of stew into the hands of the newcomers, “I’d rather drink a barrel of ale than eat a gallon of stew.” Once everyone had a bowl, Brynja settled down onto the ground, waiting for her stew to cool. She had little spices to cook with, salt and mugwort that came from the Breton with the goat. She claimed it was used as a seasoning, and Brynja had to admit, it did give the soup an aromatic flavor.
“Don’t forget that Solandil and I destroyed the airships with our bare hands.” Brynja nodded at Rhona, she had met her on arriving back at camp right away.
“Remind me your name again, lass.”
“Rhona. I’m an enchantress by trade.” She offered a half smile, and raised the bowl of soup up towards Brynja, “Thank you for the stew.”
Rhona turned attention to Calen where she whispered, “Thank you for bringing my boots to me, and for looking after Tobias.”
“My pleasure.” He responded with a wink.
“Mm.” Brynja’s gaze shifted towards the Breton besides Rhona, “And you? Who are you?”
Nanine looked up from her stew, having been in the process of devouring it. Though she wouldn’t admit it, it had been a while since she had eaten as she’d given her rations to a family that had none. ”Nanine Tilhart, former Imperial Battle Mage turned adventurer for hire. Rhona has graciously offered enchanting lessons to increase mmy meager skills. My appreciations for the stew.” She glanced over at the Khajiit.”I don’t suppose you managed to grab their strange staves did you? The ones that shoot small projectiles and tear through armor.”
“I’m curious as well. It’d be quite beneficial to have some of the weapons used by the Dwemer, if only to learn how to best defend ourselves from them at the very least.” Jaraleet chimed in from his position next to Raelynn once Nanine had stopped speaking. He too was curious if Vasora, or any of the other rangers for that matter, had managed to get their hands on the strange armaments employed by the Deep Elves. “Ah, but where are my manners, my thanks for the stew.” He added, turning to look at Brynja as he spoke. “My name is Jaraleet, former mercenary and, for now, Colovian Ranger, pleased to meet you all.” The Argonian said before turning to look at Daro’Vasora. “Gregor here had told me that you recuperated shortly after I left you in his care.” He said, motioning towards the Imperial before continuing. “But it is nonetheless good to see that you are in good health.” He said to the Khajiit before turning his attention back to his stew. He wouldn’t admit it, but the march back to the refugee camp had tired him greatly and, as such, the assassin was grateful for both the hot food and the campfire.
Gregor smiled and nodded graciously when he was mentioned and gestured towards but said nothing just yet. He had never been the type to interrupt a conversation for something as trivial as an introduction -- that could wait. Instead, he simply looked at Daro'Vasora, for it was her turn to respond.
“I was winded, not bleeding out of my ears. Thanks, though.” Daro’Vasora replied, glancing up at the Argonian for a moment. “You might have been a bit too eager about the whole damsel in distress thing.”
“Ah, I see, my apologies, I was unsure what kind of damage you might have suffered when you fell after prying loose the hatch that kept safe the power source of that Dwemer contraption so I thought it best to leave you in the hands of the mages so they might take a look at you.” The Argonian said. “I apologize if the manner in which I carried you out of the battleground produced discomfort, it seemed the most efficient way to take you out of harm’s way at the moment. And there is no need to thank me, it’s the duty of each and every soldier to aid their brothers and sisters in arms.” Jaraleet said before continuing to eat his stew in silence.
Judena stood empty bowl in hand, having finished her portion. She nervously looked to all the new faces, Brynja asking for their introductions was a good sign they were in fact, new but she desperately hoped she was not misplacing them. She crouched down beside Meg, her hunting and gathering partner. Settling on her haunches. Jaraleet spoke adequately and clearly, she hoped he hailed from Argonia. It had felt like a long time since she had been among other Argonians. To speak freely in her native tongue was a little slice of home.
Since the strange day Durantel had joined Meg and herself, she harboured fresh pangs of courage to read the letters. He held true to his word, he never once spared a glare her way nor rattled mean spirited words her way. Mostly avoiding her outright. Judena felt it was curious behaviour but took no offence.
Latro rejoining the group was indeed spectacular news, those who joined the rangers had returned in one piece and it was truly a relief. Suffering more losses would have been unreasonable after all they had gone through together. She settled her bowl down beside her leg, “Latro it is an enormous relief to see you once again. Fate has a funny way of drawing us all together.”
“To the new faces, I sincerely hope you are new, if not - I deeply apologize for not recalling our first meeting. Please, try not to take offence. My name is Judena Callisar,” she removed her logbook from inside her robes. “For decades I have found joy in appraising ancient artefacts, scouring for history, and using my skills in alteration to discover the past.”
“Daro’Vasora, when you have a moment I would like to hear your thoughts on the dwemer constructs you dealt with first hand. Very valuable observations, I am sure.”
The Khajiit smiled in return. “Tomorrow, when there’s light. I’ve got a pair of walking trophies I’d love to show you. Don’t worry, Judena; I will remind you.”
It was hard to wipe the grin off Meg's face, even while she sipped at her bowl of soup, green eyes watching, taking in the sight before her. Four days. She had to keep reminding herself it had been only that long since she had last seen Brynja and Sora, even though it felt like so much longer She was thrilled to see they were back, and with Latro nonetheless. A sure tear -or was it a few?- had found its way to her eyes, which she continued to blink away even now. She'd had faith she would see Brynja, Daro'Vasora and Sol once more, but Latro? While the small glimmer of hope had remained in her heart, it had been covered by the dark cloak of reality.
Even as she listened to Judena, grinning slightly at her apology to the newcomers, Meg looked from the familiar faces to the less familiar ones, including some she had briefly met in the refugee camp when she wasn't out in the forest. The Nord waved her hand, the look on her face calming slightly as her grin shifted to a smile, though her legs continued to shake excitedly, as was their habit.
"Megana Corvus' my name, but y'all can call me Meg, nice an' short." Though those who had met her in the camp would surely know her name, she was quite sure she had never seen any of the new faces that had accompanied her friends from the Rangers. "Nice t'see you lot." If her older companions trusted them, she would as well. From what it sounded, it seemed quite a lot had happened. Meg couldn't help feeling a little envious, even though glory was never what she was after... rather the adventure.
Mortalmo stared down at his stew as the others exchanged greetings and conversed. He had accepted his portion from the Nord cow reluctantly but without incident. Pride only went so far, and for now, he needed to eat. He lifted the bowl to his lips and paused before taking a sip of the lightly steaming broth. It was... adequate. He took another sip then, eyeing Rhona, and on either side of her, another newcomer. To her left sat the Breton that had introduced herself as Nanine Tilhart, though the more concerning of the two was the figure to Rhona’s right; a Nord pretty boy that looked several shades too slimy for Mortalmo’s taste.
He looked away then, and instead chose to focus on finishing his stew. It was none of Mortalmo’s concern who Rhona chose to consort with. The wretch already rubbed shoulders with a goat, why not a Nord dog? Unfortunately, it would seem that his staring had caught the Nord’s attention.
“I don’t bite, friend!” Calen chirped, extending out a hand from across the way for him to shake. He had hoped to diffuse any awkwardness amongst the group. “What brings the pleasure of your company?”
Mortalmo stared hard at the Nord youth. He glanced down at the outstretched hand and sniffed, before drawing his eyes back up to meet the Nord’s own. “Never have I heard of a dog that did not bite. You may be the first.”
“I only bite if it's asked of me.” Calen said back to Durantel with a wink, though withdrawing his hand nonetheless.
Nanine snorted quietly. Durantel was a typical High Elf, but Calen certainly seemed able to handle it and then some.
Brynja stretched her legs out before her, and groaned at his words, “Don’t pay him much mind,” she cautioned, before glancing at Durantel sideways, “Still haven’t forgotten that you called me a cow, Durantel. And yet you eat my stew without a complaint.” Her eyebrows rose at him, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile. Her gaze shifted to Rhona who procured a wooden pipe, and packed it full of herbs. A stream of fire leapt from her fingertips igniting the pipe, where she blew the smoke out her nose as she tipped her head back, seemingly avoiding both Nanine and the Nord.
“A cow that can cook is certainly something worth commending.” Mortalmo quipped back. “Your stew was palatable and for that I am grateful.”
Her expression turned to surprise at Durantel’s unexpected compliment, “Well… thank you.” She cleared her throat, avoiding any sentiment, and turned her attention back to the blond Nord, “So, what do you call yourself? And moreover, what’s a fellow Nord doing all the way down here in Cyrodiil?”
Anifaire took a seat next to Durantel, grateful for the hot stew that was available. Without even considering the flavour or those around her, she sat and began to eat quickly. Manners stuck with her, and she tried to slow down after a few bites to be polite. She was simply grateful for the hot meal, as, with the others ducking in and out of camp and her lack of cooking skills, she’d had sparse full meals and a lot of bread in recent days.
“Calen,” he responded, “Calen Smallwood -- family name, that; not an earned one. Mayhaps hoping to change that. Ah, but jokes aside, I was just hoping to see more of Tamriel. Then, well… I guess I got roped into this mess at just the right time when people were trying to escape. Helped to get them here, as much good as that did ‘em. At least they're alive, though.”
“Calen!” Gregor suddenly exclaimed, a roguish grin on his face. “That's it. I'd forgotten your name. Nice to see you again, but unexpected, so far from home.” The heavily-armed Imperial raised a hand in a proper greeting and tucked a loose strand of hair back behind his ear with the other. He'd already finished his stew by now, his silence having allowed him to eat as fast as possible without staining his beard, and he figured now was a good time to make himself known. It wasn't everyday he ran into old acquaintances from his time in the North. “Do you remember me? My name is Gregor. I made use of your carriage service a year or two ago.”
He then turned to look at the rest of the assembled Rangers, mages, travellers and oddities and inclined his head in their direction. “Pleased to meet you all, by the by,” Gregor added, his grin having diminished into a warm and genuine smile.
“Gregor!” Calen repeated aloud, throwing his hand across the clearing once more for good shake with a look of remembrance and a huge toothy grin. “The Vigilant if I'm not mistaken! And here I thought Tamriel was hiding a great, wide world on the other side of those mountains. It would seem that it couldn't be smaller!”
Gregor’s face betrayed nothing. “I worked with the Vigilants, yes, but close enough. Good memory.” Calen looked like his first introduction with war hadn’t changed him a bit. It was nice to see some unbridled enthusiasm in the midst of this sudden and devastating conflict. “Small world, indeed. Glad to have you here. Either way, I’ll stop hogging the limelight. Once again, nice to meet you all,” Gregor said and leaned back a little, emphasizing that he was done talking.
Raelynn didn't want to eat the stew. It was filled with an assortment of foraged foods of questionable quality. The entire thing just sat in the bowl taunting her. She'd eaten worse, sure, but looking into the miserably desperate bowl made her appetite disappear. She dragged her spoon back and forth through the now starchy broth. She longed for something real. To be at a table with people of her stature. Dignified individuals. She longingly imagined how it would feel to sit on an actual cushion, to drape herself in fabrics.
She took a few pathetic mouthfuls of the stew before placing the bowl at her side. That would be it. If anyone were to ask she would simply explain that she was tired and felt too sickly to eat it. Or she'd tell them that fresh manure would have been preferable - depending of course entirely on who would ask her why she was leaving such a full bowl. Stew is for peasants with no teeth! she thought to herself as she got up to take a wander around the camp.
Everyone was seemingly occupying themselves with idle chatter, she rolled her eyes at it all. It was all so ridiculous. Here they were, in the middle of a catastrophe and yet they found time to sing, gossip, and scoff down bowls of shite. She wanted out of here, she wanted a bed, a real fireplace and some privacy. It was all starting to grind on the Breton mage. Her hair was looking frazzled, her cloak all but destroyed, she hadn't eaten food with flavour since her last morning in the Imperial City.
She retreated out of sight of them into shadows and started… crying. But she was crying silently. Just long empty sobs with no sound. She kept it in but felt the hot tears well up under her now dull and overtired eyes. She felt haggard and ugly, like she was going to waste away. She slumped down onto her knees and stayed that way while she continued to weep, in the only slightly private spot she had found herself in.
Jaraleet had continued to eat his bowl of stew in silence, but continued to pay attention to the conversations around him. It seemed that he had found himself amidst a group that had travelled together for quite some time, if the banter and atmosphere of familiarity where any indication. The scene brought on a sense of nostalgia to the Haj-Eix, as he remembered his fellow brothers and sisters who still remained in Argonia and, in some cases, scattered throughout the rest of Tamriel.
Any further thoughts were interrupted when he noticed that Raelynn leaving the perimeter of the campfire. It hadn’t taken him too long to notice that the mood of the Breton healer was heavy, a fact that was rather evident by her apparent lack of appetite and silence throughout the conversation. He briefly pondered whether or not to go looking after her, but in the end decided against it; they hadn’t known each other for too long and he doubted that his presence would be welcome, not to mention the fact that, in truth, the assassin didn’t care all too much for how Raelynn felt. He was grateful towards her for healing his wounds, but asides from that the Saxhleel hadn’t much attachment towards her.
He thought about chatting with Gregor, the only other person with whom he had exchanged more than a few words aside from Raelynn, but the Imperial seemed busy chatting with Calen. The self-proclaimed Imperial Battlemage seemed rather busy….staring at a few of the individuals gathered near the campfire. A strange thing to do, for sure, but Jaraleet decided not to bother her, although it did make him suspicious of Nanine. “It is a pleasure to meet you Meg, and you as well Raj-Deelith Callisar. It is always an honor to speak to one such as you.” Jaraleet said, deciding to join in the conversations happening around the campfire. “I don’t recall having seen either of you amongst the Rangers, I take it that you two stayed here?” He asked both women curiously.
"Aye, we stayed here," Meg piped in, looking at the new Argonian. She had seen Argonians in Riften as a child and later as a wanderer near Windhelm, but she'd never actually had the chance to make a proper conversation with more than a couple until now. Judena had been the first she had grown close to, and it was a nice thought that she could make another acquaintance of the same race.
"We decided t'go foraging' an' help out with those who stayed behind," she continued. "I gotta say though, sounds like y'all had the adventurin' of a lifetime out there!"
Judena perked up at Raj-Deelith, she flapped her hand at Jaraleet, “Honoured Elder! Please you may call me Judena or Jude. There is no need for honorifics here, I am simply happy to see you. As Meg said, we spent our time here collecting food - scarce as it has been. I decided to stay behind and Meg joined me to keep company. Would not have been half as successful without her.” She grinned at the Nord, “I am relieved to see those who joined the rangers returned safely.” Raelynn’s departure from the fireside did not go unnoticed. Perhaps the stew did not agree with the kindly breton?
"Aye," Meg agreed, setting down her now empty bowl. "Sure am glad t'see them again. Who'da thought four days felt like four months, eh?" With that said, she looked to Jaraleet. "Uhh... what's that word y'called Jude? Ra- er- somethin'?"
“Raj-Deelith, it is a word in our native tongue of Jel to refer to honored elders.” Jaraleet replied in response to Meg’s inquiry, smiling towards the Nord woman. “My apologies, I sometimes forget that our native tongue isn’t so widely known.” He said, bowing his head slightly as a sign of apology before turning to look at Jude.
“I’ll try and remember that Raj…..Judena.” The assassin said, just realizing midway that he was referring to Jude with the honorifice once again. He had to admit that he felt embarrassed, something that he had not felt since he had been a small hatchling and his trainers chastised him for stupid mistakes. He shook his head to clear his thoughts before continuing to speak, “Aye, many of us managed to return safely thanks to the help of the mages amongst the Rangers. But others were not so lucky, and I am sure that most of us are returning with new scars. I know I do at least.” He said grimly, his hand moving to his left side and hovering over the cauterized wound. “The Dwemer are a terrible foe, but the victory today proves that they can be defeated.” The Saxhleel said, smiling towards both Jude and Meg once he was done talking.
Meg was reminded of her own wound, caused more by stupidity and far less exciting story than she believed was the cause for Jaraleet's wound. Still, at least it was healing, and mostly it was a dull pain now, serving only to remind her to be much more vigilant from now on.
"Sure's nice t'hear that," she said as she stretched out her legs towards the fire. "The day they came to the city... I just ran. As hard as I could." She shook her head. "Still kinda surprised I didn' get killed in all that chaos."
Judena patted Meg’s shoulder comfortingly. She addressed Jaraleet, “Do not fret Jarheap. Even if you were to forget I would not hold it against you.”
Jaraleet was confused by the way Judena had called him, but thought best of bringing it up and merely nodded towards the elder Saxhleel with a smile. “You shouldn’t be ashamed Meg.” He added in response to the comment made by the Nord woman. “We were caught by surprise, there was nothing we could do. I too was forced to run from the Imperial City, so do not be ashamed of your actions that day.” He said, offering the woman a smile. “Plus, I’m sure that you’ll have plenty of chances in the days to come to repay the Dwemer for forcing us all to flee from battle.”
"Heh..." Meg appreciated both Judena's comforting pat as well as Jaraleet's words. "I'm countin' on it... those bastards gotta pay for all this." This was accompanied by her hand motioning towards the refugee camp in general. "I'm just... I'm still stumped. I mean... first dragons, now dwemer... what next?"
“It does not matter.” Jaraleet said quietly in response to Meg’s words, looking down at his empty bowl. “Don’t mistake my words for indifference of what you are going through, it is natural to be confused in such times.” The assassin continued to speak, looking at Meg directly in the eyes. “Yet, all the same, it doesn’t changes anything. We are soldiers right now, no matter what we were before the Dwemer came, and our sole purpose is to defeat the Deep Elves and protect the rest of Tamriel.” He spoke with conviction, settling his empty bowl down and reaching for his backpack. “But, that doesn’t matters for the moment.” He said as he retrieved a bottle from the pack.
He uncorked the bottle and took a swig of its content, letting out a contented sigh. “Would you like some? It’s Theilul, a type of Argonian rum. I managed to salvage this from my home before fleeing.” The assassin said with a smile, extending the bottle towards Jude and Meg.
Meg thought about it a moment before allowing her grin to return. It seemed like forever since that drunk night in Imperial City. "Why not?" She reached out and took hold of the bottle, not in the slightest bit worried that it may be too strong for her to drink. Bringing the bottle to her lips, she took swig of the Theilul, blinking as she swallowed. "Huh, that's different." She took a quick second sip before offering the bottle to Judena, though she was unsure if her friend would partake or not.
Judena declined. “Thank you, Jarnolle. That is kind, but that rum has not sat well with me ever since I was a youth. I found nord mead and wines to be a bit more preferable.”
“Ah, that’s a shame. But I suppose that only means that there’s more for me, and for Meg if she wishes to drink more.” The Argonian said with a smile, hiding his confusion, and slight discomfort, at the fact that Judena seemed unable to recall his name after such a short while. He took the bottle of Theilul and took another swig before offering it to Meg once again, giving her a quizzical look alongside of his offer of the bottle. A sort of unspoken question about Judena’s confusion about his name.
Taking one more swig, enjoying the drink with every gulp, Meg noticed the look on the other Argonian's face. "Ah, Judena kinda forgets stuff, but ya just gotta remind her an' she'll do her best t'remember. She writes down lotsa notes as well, bloody useful t'be honest. I'm sure she'll write down your name when she gets a chance." She took a smaller sip this time before holding the bottle out for Jaraleet to take.
“Ah.” Jaraleet said as he took the bottle, taking a small sip of its content before speaking again. “My thanks Meg, I’ll endeavor to remind Judena of my name in case she forgets about it again.” The Argonian said, taking yet another drink of the Theilul before offering the bottle again to Meg. They continued to share the contents of the bottle until it was empty, with Jaraleet listening in on the other conversations going around the campfire in silence.
Nanine settled back next to Rhona, enjoying the smell of the woman’s pipe even if she herself didn’t smoke, as the conversation swirled around them, her empty stew bowl beside her. With nothing to add to the conversation, she turned her efforts to remembering particular faces she wanted to draw later. Meg, with her slightly wild grin and visibly vibrating with excitement, like someone had trapped lightning and it was just so happy to be here. Nani had to smile at the sight. It was cute.
Durantel, with his disdainful facial expressions and words, was cold, but not cold enough to hide something that lurked just behind his eyes, like a glacier on top of the flooded ruins of Winterhold, hiding deep secrets. Was it longing? Regret? Nanine couldn’t tell. Perhaps she was just imagining it, wistfully thinking that life imitates the stories.
With Gregor it was far easier to tell what emotion was in his eyes. The thing that kept his charms from fully reaching his face. The man was driven, and driven harshly. Something bore on him, something he couldn’t escape, like a violent thunderstorm gathering atop a mountain, ready to bring ruin to the small village beneath it. His secrets were his own, however, and Nanine’s interest remained artistic.
The other Altmer, the younger one, looked out of place. It might have been her general demeanor, that of someone who had just recently been thrown into circumstances like this, or perhaps it was how she tried to retain her manners despite being just as hungry as Nanine herself had been. Regardless, she reminded the Breton mage of an ornate teapot, left out in the middle of the woods.
The Khajiit brought a wry smile to her face, looking like...well, like a cat who had just caught its prey, and was smugly laying in the sun and enjoying its victory. Nanine had to wonder, however, if the possible consequences for destroying and airship and stealing the suits even crossed the other woman’s mind, or if she was too busy basking in the glow of victory to think of the future. Nanine’s eyes almost unconsciously shifted between these five people, striving to commit their expressions and body language to memory. It was a strange, and doubtlessly creepy, way to start her first interactions with them, but she couldn’t help herself.
“Lady, you’re being creepy.” Daro’Vasora confirmed, handing the lute over to Latro so she could accept a bowl of the stew herself. “So what kind of maiming is on your mind? Rug, fur coat, boot liners? Try me, I’ve heard everything. The only people who stare like you do either want to murder someone or screw their brains out. Sometimes both, I don’t judge.” She sniffed the bowl before shrugging and taking a spoonful. “Much.”
Nanine gave a start, realizing she’d been staring too long again. Embarrassment colored her cheeks, and she floundered. ”Oh, by the Nine, I did it again. Shit! I told myself I wouldn’t do this.”While she struggled to articulate, Rhona spoke up.
Rhona chewed thoughtfully on the stem of her pipe, smoke rolling out of her nostrils. She gave Nanine a sideways glance before turning her attention to the Khajiit, “I’m certain Nanine means no harm. After all,” she swept her hand out, gesturing to everyone gathered around the campfire, “it is a curious sight to see so many different faces seated around one such place. From my travels, Mara has brought many a curious face across my path, and sometimes… those people become our allies, even if for a short time.”
“Yup, we were all brought here out of Mara’s love, and not the totally far-fetched idea that there’s thousands of people from a city in one place who’ve been displaced by a Dwemer invasion. I wish I had your optimism, or whatever drugs you partake in.” The Khajiit replied deadpan, carelessly eating the contents of the bowl. “My apologies, but allies is a strong word for someone I’ve never even seen before. What do you do, exactly?”
She pulled the pipe out of her mouth, considering both Daro’Vasora and her words carefully, before turning her pipe upside down and tapping it against the ground, removing the ashes effectively. Tobias had wandered off into the darkness behind her, most likely finding himself something delectable to munch on.
Rhona shook her head, a ghost of a smile appearing before vanishing altogether, “Forgive my broad words, but I meant those here, present in this circle. Not the thousands of troubled souls beyond this fire. Think what you will about me, I cannot change the winds of Kynareth, it is her breath that guides me across the lands. The first path I crossed was that of Calen’s, and here he sits--” Calen waved his hand, “--I next crossed Nanine’s, and here she sits. Then it was Durantel, and he is a part of this group. As you were with the Rangers during these last few days dealing the Dwemer a deadly blow, I had the opportunity to meet your fellow companions, Megana, Judena, Alim, and Rhea. And here they all are.” She shrugged a bit haphazardly, “And now here you are.”
“I said it before, but in case you didn’t hear, I shall repeat myself. I am an enchantress by trade. I’ve travelled across Cyrodiil and beyond for the last couple years.” Rhona blinked slowly, before turning towards her rucksack, rummaging around until she found what she sought, she refilled her pipe, relit it, and stuck it back her mouth. Before her eyebrows rose, “Would you care for some? It’s just Mugwort and lavender. It has a natural relaxing effect.” She extended the pipe towards her.
“I never realized that an invitation for a meal and a fire was divine intervention. Perhaps I should have blamed lady Kynareth for the lack of attendance at my childhood birthday parties.” The Khajiit replied, turning down the pipe with an extended palm. “So, enchantress, huh? Are we talking making men walking weapons of destruction or faire trinkets that allegedly improve your sex life while lowering your appetite? One of which would be useful in present circumstances, the other if your name is Durantel and want to be somewhat appealing towards courting a woman.”
“How about the stew? I thought the stew was great.” Calen awkwardly interjected, trying to diffuse the tension.
“It’s not bad. Could use more skeever chunks, those little shits are everywhere.” Daro’Vasora said agreeably.
“At least someone likes it,” Brynja nodded her thanks to Calen before turning to glower at Vasora, “Well you don’t have to eat it, y’know.” She resisted the urge to knock the bowl out of her hands, but thought better of it. This was just how Vasora was, it would take her time to trust anyone, much like herself.
Nanine focused herself, a sheen of frost covering her gauntlets as she connected with magic to calm her flustered nerves, grateful that the conversation had moved on.
Rhona shook her head, laughing softly, “Over 9 years of experience enchanting weapons, amulets, circlets, rings, clothing, and armor. There’s only a few enchantments I’ve yet to learn, but yes, turning men into walking weapons I can do.” Her tone changed, “As for helping men court women, that is outside of my expertise. Love is… not my forte, I can’t enchant the hearts and minds of men.”
“I beg to differ.” Calen muttered beneath a barely contained smirk. Rhona glanced at him, her cheeks turning a rosy shade of pink, and then quickly turned her attention back to Daro’Vasora.
“Oh hush, Brynja, it’s just fine. I might even get seconds if it lasts that long.” Daro’Vasora assured the Nord. She pulled the mace from her belt, holding it out so it caught the firelight. “So, let’s say I wanted this enchanted to cause paralysis after smashing someone’s kneecap. Is that something you can do?”
“It’s not one I’ve done often, but I know it, and can do it, if you have the coin of course. Soul gems aren’t cheap.”
Daro’Vasora pouted. “And so much for being allies. We’re supposed to look after each other.” she said with a wink. “Tell you what, I’ll think on it and see if I can’t find something worth your while. I’ve spent my time around Tamriel the past few years digging up artifacts and selling them off, I know what’s worth more than a few coins for your trouble. I might like you after all.”
Rhona nodded in agreement, “Fair enough, you find me something of value, and I’ll enchant that mace of yours. Same goes for the rest of you.”
“A dagger with the potential to paralyze an opponent would be a most welcome utility.” Mortalmo sized Rhona up. Was this asking too much of the Breton? How much she valued the services he offered would remain to be seen. “Perhaps I would have use for an enchanter after all, girl.”
She shifted uneasily, Durantel had proved a most dutiful teacher in the past few days, and what he had taught her was helpful already. In her eyes, the least she could do was to fulfill a simple request as his. Rhona took a puff from her pipe, smoke seeping out from the corners of her mouth, “But of course.” It dawned on her then, that since she hadn’t seen Calen in three days time, she had no idea if he had seen Cezare again. She swallowed hard.
The Altmer bowed his head. “I am most thankful. And be assured that I will earn this boon.”
Alim poked his head into the small clearing, leaves and a twig in his thick mane of hair. They had decided to have a party without him? “Oh…” he said, squinting. “I see how it is.”
Judena glanced around at the rustling nearby, Raelynn still on her own but the sudden appearance of the rogue had Jude waving Alim over, “Come Alim, the bush is no place to get dinner. We would know, having already checked ourselves!” Cackling a little at her own joke, knowing he would appreciate the attempt.
Nanine had finally managed to stop her embarrassment, the frost dissipating from her gauntlets. She needed to explain herself before Daro’Vasora’s narrative took hold.”I apologize if I made anyone uncomfortable, earlier. I draw in my spare time, and like to draw specific moments in my journal later. Like an adventurer lightly strumming a lute, eager to brag about her victories over an enemy not seen in centuries, basking in the glow of victory and the warmth of a campfire. So I tend to unconsciously stare at people or things in those moments to try and capture every detail, even though I only need a few moments to remember things perfectly. So no maiming on my mind and no screwing for you I’m afraid.” Nanine smirked lightly. ” You’ll have to find someone else’s private life to judge.”
Gregor had followed the conversation with no small measure of amusement. Daro’Vasora’s caustic wit and devil-may-care attitude reminded him of some of the smarter Nords he’d met during his time in Skyrim, and wasn’t characteristic of her race at all. It was always funny to see people defying stereotypes. The male Altmer was predictably condescending, but beyond that there was a sharpness in his gaze that Gregor had only seen in the most cunning of people before. And so his thoughts went round the campfire’s attendees, forming first impressions, creating opinions… but there was a part of him in the back of his mind that rendered far more sinister judgements, like a whisper at the edge of his hearing.
Not a threat. Not a threat. Might become a threat. Not a threat. Dangerous, be watchful. Not a threat…
“So, Nanine,” the Imperial said after clearing his throat and smiled. “What do you make of this handsome mug of mine, eh?” Gregor’s tone made it clear that he was jesting, following in Calen’s footsteps when it came to keeping the mood light, but only half. He really was curious what someone so experienced in observation would make of him now. After everything.
“Hope you don't mind settling for second best!” Calen immediately pitched in, raising his mug of whatever mystery drink they were serving and winking at Gregor with a humored smile. This earned him a sharp look from Durantel, though the elf remained silent.
Nanine paused a moment, smiling at the banter, as she studied Gregor’s face. “You’ve certainly been blessed with good looks and an eternal youthfulness that elude most, but age is beginning to catch up with you. It is small, a wrinkle here, a grey hair there, but it exists. You’ve the build and easy movements of an adventurer, as with most of us here.” She paused, chuckling lightly. “And the easy charisma of someone who knows he’s blessed with good looks.”
Her voice became quieter as she moved onto the shadow that hung over him. “Unlike the rest of us, however, there’s something else. Something in the way you move, something in your eyes. You move as if you have the weight of the world on your shoulders, and as if it never quite leaves your mind. It prevents your smiles from filling your eyes, your laughs from being as loud as they could be. You move as if you’re being chased. Whatever it is, it’s not as simple as the death of a loved one, or a betrayal. People driven by that have different looks, a smoldering rage or a burning desire in their eyes. The look behind your eyes is...intense. And unyielding. Like steel.”
The easygoing half-smile on Gregor’s face slowly disappeared as Nanine talked, his dark eyes locked into her grey gaze. It was the first time someone had paid sufficient attention to him to read between the lines since he’d come back from Skyrim. A dark look fell over his features, their beauty briefly stolen by melancholy and the very steel that she spoke of, and Gregor finally averted his gaze when she was done talking, her judgement rendered. He briefly opened his mouth, as if to speak, but appeared to think better of it and closed it again. Gregor felt the eyes of the others on him now while images of the horrible things he’d seen and done raced through his mind.
Suddenly, and without warning, he climbed to his feet, brushing the leaves out of his cloak before his hands went over his various sheaths and holsters, absent-mindedly performing the same gear check he had done a hundred times over. “That was… quite perceptive, Nanine,” he managed, the act of getting up to leave returning some measure of control over the situation back to him that allowed him to speak. “We all have our demons. If you’ll excuse me, I have to…”
Gregor trailed off and gestured vaguely with his hands towards the rest of the refugee encampment behind him. He cleared his throat, squared his shoulders and, after a final curt nod, set off at a brisk pace into the gloom.
Nanine watched him go, murmuring, “Perhaps it’d be best if I stopped talking the rest of the night.”
Mortalmo watched the Imperial take his leave with narrowed eyes. That one warranted caution.
A silence filled the camp at Gregor’s departure, one that made even Brynja feel unsettled. She cleared her throat, and turned her attention to Alim, “Well it’s about time you got here,” she grunted as she climbed to her feet, where she filled a bowl of stew, and handed it off to him before claiming a bottle of ale for herself. She settled down beside Daro’Vasora, where she uncorked the bottle.
“Where’ve you been, Alim? Off chasing skirts again?” She took a mighty swig from her bottle, and pointed it at him, her eyebrows raised as the corners of her lips turned upwards.
Alim had his mouth half full of one of the chicken legs that was roasting on the fire, and he nearly choked on it when she spoke. The spellsword banged on his chest with his fist as he swallowed what he could. “I take offense to that, I don’t chase skirts!” He declared. Though you could tell he wasn’t truly hurt. He opened his mouth to clarify, but it took him a moment to find the words. “I just enjoy flirting... and if the flirting bears fruit, then you know I won’t complain.” He placed his hand on his chest for emphasis.
“Besides,” he began. “My true passion is shiny things, adventure, and then women...in that order generally. Unless the woman happens to be interested in me too, then the others take a back seat.” He spoke matter of fact as if it was the natural order of things. “All three are preferable however...ANYWAY, enough about me. What has been happening here while I was napping?” He asked. Without warning, it looked as if he plucked a flute out of the air, though quick eyes would see he had grabbed it from his pack at this side. He didn’t play just yet however, instead wanting to hear the answer first. He’d only give a tune to keep the hearty vibe going, anyway.
Brynja shrugged, “The newcomers were introducing themselves. We’ve Nanine, Rhona and Calen,” She gestured to the trio seated together, “Then you just missed Gregor, and there’s Jaraleet, both from the Rangers… and by the Gods! Latro is alive!” She leaned forward suddenly, double checking to make certain he still remained at Daro’Vasora’s side. She nodded, and then leaned backwards again.
“It is a pleasure to meet you Alim, from the familiar tone I take it you are part of this group rather than a recent acquaintance, no?” Jaraleet interjected at the mention of his name, giving a slight bow of his head in the direction of the Redguard.
Alim listened to Brynja, and then gave a smile at the mention of Gregor. They hadn’t been properly introduced but even that small glimpse, he could see the man had been somewhat flustered. But then, an Argonian! “Ah, tis a pleasure sir.” He said, and held his hand out to shake. He wasn’t sure if that was the correct gesture to give to one of the Black Marsh peoples but he was certain Jaraleet would find it polite. “Always good to have an Argonian on board.” He said. From his experience, they were often very skilled at whatever they put their minds to, and Alim valued skill highly.
Jaraleet smiled and shook Alim’s outstretched hand firmly. “Ah, you are too kind.” He said with a light chuckle at the mention that it was good to have another Argonian on board. “I’m a mere recent acquaintance, I’m not sure if I could be considered to be ‘on board’ as you put.” He said, scratching the back of his neck slightly as he pondered on Alim’s words. “Though, truth be told, I wouldn’t be opposed to the notion, given the present situation.” He added before chuckling once more. “Ah, but that is not for me to decide, is it? You’ve already shown me a great kindness by inviting me to share in your food, it would be impolite of me to request more.” Said the assassin with a smile.
Mortalmo eyed Jaraleet appraisingly. “What are your capabilities, scaled one? This ensemble has faced significant peril in the past few weeks alone. It would not be in the best interest of one lacking worldly experience to go down any road with us.” The lizard did not appear incompetent as far as the Mer could gauge, though it would never do to overestimate a mere animal.
“Well, I know my way around a blade better than most I’d say.” Jaraleet spoke in response to Durantel’s inquiry, patting the sheaths in which his sword and dagger rested. “But, aside from that, I’m also adept at sneaking by enemies should the need arise. Quite useful for scouting ahead of battle, in my opinion.” The Argonian continued on. “I’m also proficient in making alchemical concoctions, which could prove useful in the days to come.” He said, deciding to omit that his knowledge of alchemy was rather confined to the making of poisons rather than any of the more beneficial concoctions for which most alchemists were known.
“Very well. I do not claim to be the leader of this assortment by any stretch, though I believe I speak for all here that possess sense when I say that I suspect you would be an asset, rather than a hindrance.” Maybe Mortalmo’s words would ring true; if he had to guess, the time for the Argonian to place some substance behind his statements would arrive soon enough. Surely this group was a beacon for strife.
“Thank you for your kind words.” Jaraleet said in response. He knew that the Altmer’s words weren’t said out of mere kindness, not after the display he had done when Calen had attempted to be friendly towards him, but the Haj-Eix had no desire to be confrontational with him, especially if he had been travelling with this group for long. The Altmer had proclaimed that he wasn’t the leader of the group, but his words still could carry some weight behind them and, as such, Jaraleet preferred to be polite. “I know that my words aren’t sufficient to earn me a place amongst you, after all trust is a precious commodity that shouldn’t be squandered. Especially not in times such as these ones, but, if you give me a chance, I can promise you that it’ll be worth it.”
“If you can swing a blade as good as you say, then you’ll be of use to us.” Brynja nodded her head in agreement. After all this time Rhea still hadn’t said a word, she figured that she must’ve been exhausted. “It’s always good to have another blade around.” Durantel nodded his assent at Brynja’s words.
Anifaire had finished her stew, and was looking at the pot, her stomach still unsatisfied. She found was less uncomfortable in the presence of these strange people than she had been at first, even with the new additions. It seemed this was the way her life was, now. She was glad Alim had arrived, and wondered if he would play his flute.
Durantel’s speaking had drawn more attention to their side of the fire than she would have liked, and she shrunk a bit away from him. She felt self conscious, both because of the new faces and that she looked far from the noblewoman she was, her skin and clothes uncomfortably filthy and torn up.
“Among other strange things we have witnessed, that we have no doubt seen the last of.” Judena commented, scratching at her ‘beard’ as she spoke, she glanced at Anifaire. “We are in no short of capable minds to match our brawn. We need to confer, share thoughts and expertise. Anifaire,” Judena looked to the downtrodden Mer, perhaps she would appreciate some distraction. “Is one of the experts on Dwemer, she specializes in studying them. Was it culture you focused on or technology?”
Anifaire looked up in surprise when Judena spoke, but the topic brightened her mood. “I studied mostly language in particular, but of course, language impacts and is impacted by culture, so it is wider than that.” She paused. “What do you study?” She still found it odd that this Argonian was studying something so in depth.
“That is amazing! Perhaps with your help we can try to understand what they are saying, Anifaire. Demystify them.” Judena enthused. “I simply study and date artifacts. Find out how old they are, where they are from, who was once connected to
them. Then I remove those centuries, restoring them back the best I can discovering things hidden by age. If you want my dear you are invited to sit and watch as I work. Piece restoration is truly inspiring.” She said happy to see Anifaire engaged. Truly it would take a dedicated team, resources, and workspace to continue their study of the Dwemer in depth but they could make due by crafting theories while on the road.
“I would love to watch some of your work,” Anifaire replied.
Nanine perked up at the mention of Judena dating and restoring artifacts. She’d have to see if the old argonian could verify her family’s stories about her blade.
Mortalmo rose to his feet then, glancing about those still gathered around the campfire. “If you would all be so gracious, I think I will take my leave of your company now.” He glanced up at the darkened sky. “The night drags on, and I must say my prayers.” The Mer turned on his heel then, and retreated from the soft glow that the fire provided. Rhona watched him leave, she would need to rest soon, he had promised to continue her training tomorrow.
By the time Solandil had sorted his errands for the day and found his company, he found several had already retired for the night - and they were also joined by newcomers. Some were still eating, and upon seeing a still bubbling pot of stew over the fire, Sol felt great relief. Since the Ranger’s arrival back to camp, Sol had spent several hours trying to find an affordable blacksmith to repair the broken leather strap on his chest-plate. Of course, in a camp such as this one, any kind of labour required payment. Even if he had had money available, all people wanted was food and water, each of which he had sparse amounts that he was unwilling to part with. After several rejections and failure of intimidating folk into doing it out of goodwill, Sol had simply haphazardly knotted the two frayed ends together, leaving the plate lopsided, but steady. For now, anyway.
Joining the circle of companions, Sol slumped into a sitting position beside the young rogue Meg with a sigh, dumping his battered armour beside him. His shirt still remained damaged and leaving his skin to the open air, but at this point Sol was far too hungry and tired to give a damn. Glancing at Brynja, his fingers traced his chest absent-mindedly, reminded of the wound that no longer sat there.
She rose to her feet, and filled a bowl of stew, part of her wondering just how they ended up with so many wooden bowls. Brynja handed the bowl over to Solandil, a small smile on her face, “It’s about time you got back. We’re almost out of stew.”
Meg had just been about to stand up, a yawn smothered by her hand when she noticed Solandil had sat down next to her. It had indeed been a long time since she had seen him, and if she was being honest, he was a much more appealing sight that Durantel. Sure, the other Altmer wasn't as insufferable as before, but she was still slightly iffy around him.
"Long time no see!" she greeted. "Glad t'see you're in one piece." She looked to Brynja as well, smiling. "Same's for you too, y'know. I missed you 'round here!"
Brynja nodded at her, “It’s nice to know you’re all alive and well. I hope you didn’t get into anything too dangerous while I was away.” She narrowed her eyes at Meg before winking.
“Uh…” Meg blinked before glancing sideways, sheepish look finding itself on her face. “Not really! Been pretty quiet ‘sides the obvious.” She did not want to be scolded for her little misadventure!
“Mm, well that’s good to hear.” Brynja said through a stifled yawn. The hour was late, she’d have to get some rest soon.
Meg chuckled at Brynja, seeing the other Nord was as tired as she was. "There's lots I wanna catch up with both of you, but I'mma leave it 'til the morn when we're all rested an' not talking slurred an' eyes half closed." She gave a friendly pat to Sol's shoulder as she came to a stand, stifling another yawn with her free hand. "Sleep well y'all." Waving at everyone in general, she trotted off in search of her bedspread and sweet dreams.
Judena watched Durantel’s departure, eyes on his back. The pages of her logbook remembered their strange day, she dug the butt of her spear into the ground pulling herself to stand. “I hope you have a pleasant evening, Durantel. We will see you on the morrow.” Her tone was pleasant but her eyes burrowed. While it may come as strange for her to address the Altmer now, perhaps she would share what had happened with someone. Another perspective might clear the clouds surrounding it. As she was, she was content spending time by the warm fire light and commit new names with their faces to memory.
Mortalmo stopped momentarily in his tracks, now nearly entirely shrouded by the blackness of night. Without turning around, he called back, “And you as well, Judena.” His voice was strained, though with each syllable spoken, the something made an effort to snag some of that tautness away. “May you have a satisfactory slumber.” Then he was gone.
Jaraleet observed the interaction between Judena and Durantel in silence. The departure of the Altmer, and particularly his comment on how late it was, reminded the Saxhleel of how much time it had passed since he had gotten a good night of rest and, as such, he decided to retire as well. “I think I’ll follow in Durantel’s footsteps and retire for the night. My thanks for the stew, and for allowing me to join you as well.” He spoke to the gathered members of the group, “If it’s acceptable to you all, I’ll pitch in my tent close to those belonging to you.” He added, waiting for an answer before picking up his rucksack and stepping away from the campfire to pitch his tent.
“By all means,” Brynja said, nodding her head in approval at the Argonian, “and I’m off to sleep as well.” She rose to her feet, stretching one more time before she departed from the warmth of the campfire to her own tent.
Nanine watched Durantel leave with curiosity. She found it odd that the Altmer would be even moderately civil to the Argonians of the group, but call Calen a dog. Usually people hated the beast races more than they hated the others. Something to think about later.
“It appears the night is drawing to a close. Thank you again for your hospitality and, if it is not too much to ask a bit more from you, I’ll be sleeping next to the fire.” Nanine began her nightly ritual, undoing her earrings and carefully storing them in her pack, before bringing out a brush to take care of her hair. The motions were automatic by now, and she hummed lightly to herself. She’d take care of her sword later.
Calen set the wooden bowl by his foot; it was licked clean of every drop of stew that was served in it, and he looked up at the battlemage as she packed her belongings together, thinking with careful consideration if he wanted to--
“I have a covered wagon.” Calen said abruptly. Not so careful, evidently. His disposition was nonchalant, matter-of-factly; his proposition was one made out of generosity less so than it was out of any lecherous intent. Gesturing to the rest of those who remained around the campfire, the bard continued, “It’s warm, private -- and the offer’s open to any of you, if you don’t have a place to rest your head or anything. It’s no big deal.”
Rhona stood up, taking the gesture from those that headed off to bed, that it was time for her to do so as well. Tobias’ head swiveled up at the sound of her getting to her feet, and trotted over to her. He let out a small bleat as he rubbed his head against her leg. She stooped to pet him, and sighed, “I’ll be going to bed as well, goodnight.” And with that, she slipped into the shadows, Tobias trailing behind her.
Anifaire huddled as close to the fire as she could manage once the others had headed off. She wasn’t sure if anyone had noticed her presence by the fire at night. When Nanine had mentioned she would be sleeping by the fire, as well, Anifaire first instinct had been panic. That was awful close for a stranger to be sleeping. But the panic faded quickly. All of her experiences these past few days had been uncomfortable, and she’d basically resigned herself to not experiencing a comfortable setting again anytime soon. In order to get out of here she needed money, and for that, she needed a bank - which would be inside the city. And there were the Dwemer to contend with.
Usually not one to speak up, Calen’s offer of the wagon was too good to refuse. He had made it clear to be an open offer, and Anifaire stuttered over her words for a few moments, starting sentences and then rephrasing, before she finally spat out, “I would appreciate the shelter for the night.” Her face was red with embarrassment as she looked at Calen, though through the crusted mud and grime it was unlikely to be visible. She would simply be grateful to be off the ground.
“Not just for the night,” Calen added, “for as long as you need. The nights are getting colder, right? I don’t know how many of you have slept outside during a Skyrim winter, but a chill like this never bothered me anyway.”
“Winters in Skyrim are the worst. Especially when you’re on watch in the middle of the night. Thank you for the offer Calen, but I’ll let Anifaire take the wagon. It’s a nice night at anyrate.” Nanine gestured to the sky.
“Thank you… both,” Anifaire said. She gathered her cloak around herself tighter, still covered in mud, but about to sleep off the ground. In all her life, she never thought she would be so grateful for something so small. She’s never even considered she might have to sleep on the ground, let alone doing so coated in mud.
“I have a spare blanket in my pack, and a change of clothes. They might not fit you right, but they’d be better than the mud caked things you have now, at least until they can get washed.” Nanine offered, neglecting to mention that both were her only others. She’d buy more in town if necessary.
Anifaire turned to face the other woman in surprise. “I… really? I would love to wash these. Thank… you.” The generosity around her was both foreign and unexpected. At home, these things had been provided for her without question, and she’d never considered what it would be like to even lack them. Suddenly, she felt like she should have been more grateful to her family’s servants.
“No problem at all.” Nanine said cheerfully, pausing in her brushing of her hair to ruffle through her pack and gather the blanket and spare change of clothes. She got up and handed the folded pile to the High Elf with an earnest smile, before heading back to her pack and resuming brushing her hair.
As much as Daro’Vasora hated to admit it, but she was actually enjoying seeing everyone again. The last time they’d all been together and not fearing for their lives had been up in the expedition camp on the peaks of the Jerall Mountains, and while that felt like a lifetime ago, she had grown to know and appreciate members of her party and reaffirming her unlikely friendship with the likes of Judena and Latro, and perhaps most shocking of all, Brynja. She had the lute she had given Latro back in Imperial City in hand and was idly strumming to some of the songs she was most acquainted with that didn’t require much in the way of technical prowess; it was mainly to fill the air with song and help set people at ease, including, ideally, Durantel, the haughty Altmer prick that she half expected to replace his broken flute by pulling it out of his ass. Somehow, he even seemed less insufferable than usual, and against all odds and probability, actually seemed to make new acquaintances of his own, such as a Breton girl who had some Nord-like fairness to her. She apparently had a goat, brought to her by a blond Nord, they seemingly had met before as he took a seat beside her, even handing her a pair of boots, though he certainly oozed of charm and a degree of sleeziness, and another Breton girl that wore armour and looked like she was quite out of place amongst the riff-raff. The Khajiit didn’t bother inquiring who these new faces were, she was sure they’d make themselves known in time if they weren’t temporary additions to the camp.
Daro’Vasora had been quite thrilled to present Latro back to the group as a whole, explaining he was a Ranger and had managed to save the lute she’d given him. She didn’t bother trying to hide her fondness for him and they sat close to one another, and to show even she wasn’t to be shown up by Durantel, she invited Gregor and Jaraleet to join them since the kindly Imperial healer did take concern for her well being after her daring defeat of two of those piloted suits, and Jaraleet was… well, capable. He didn’t say much and seemed to just come and go as he pleased.
Rhea was keeping largely to herself, although she caught her glancing at the people she considered her own with a look of… what, exactly? Guilt, anxiety? She seemed bent on ensuring everyone was safe and looked after to atone for what happened since the ruins, but here she was, probably having all of that catch up to her. Nobody heard much of Count Hassildor over the past couple of days, and even the guards seemed to be less assertive than usual. Maybe it was the calm before the storm, or everyone was finally admitting to themselves this refugee crisis wasn’t going to resolve itself. The Khajiit didn’t care, overly much; the Rangers managed to secure fairly regular supplies from people in turn for their efforts, which included handing out supplies that they had “liberated” from the Dwemer out to refugee groups, and showing those interested the newly captured technology, including the two suits Daro’Vasora took credit for capturing. She barely thought of the Mer she’d blinded and killed in the one; bastard had it coming, along with the rest of his shitty cronies. She just was giving them a taste of what they’d already been doing, it wouldn’t cost her sleep.
By Baan Dar, she was going to take credit for her actions. It felt good to do something, what, heroic? Who knew? Who cared? The Khajiit was riding a high, and she knew that wherever Zegol was, he’d be smiling down on her for picking herself up and getting things done. Daro’Vasora was not someone to sit around when opportunity knocked.
“So, not sure if you guys noticed the two fancy Dwemer suits over there? I did stop them, with help, of course. A bunch of frost mages and a pair of particularly strapping Argonians later, and out comes the soul gems, but my, it was exciting. It felt good to get a few licks in, to show those Dwemer assholes that they aren’t as invincible as they want you to believe. We even went down the ruins after them, flushed them out one by one. For people called the Deep Elves, they sure were inadequate at holding off the Rangers. The rest of you should sign up, beats festering in this depressing dump. By the way, who are those guys?” she pointed with her toe towards Rhona, Nani, and Calen. “I’m not sharing my rations; Brynja already eats enough for three of us, she’s a growing woman who needs to crush a few dwarf necks.” Daro’Vasora said, scrumming out the chords for A Daggerfall Mistress, which was a bawdy tavern song out West that made its way to the capital, to lighten the mood somewhat.
Brynja grunted as she passed a bowl of stew into the hands of the newcomers, “I’d rather drink a barrel of ale than eat a gallon of stew.” Once everyone had a bowl, Brynja settled down onto the ground, waiting for her stew to cool. She had little spices to cook with, salt and mugwort that came from the Breton with the goat. She claimed it was used as a seasoning, and Brynja had to admit, it did give the soup an aromatic flavor.
“Don’t forget that Solandil and I destroyed the airships with our bare hands.” Brynja nodded at Rhona, she had met her on arriving back at camp right away.
“Remind me your name again, lass.”
“Rhona. I’m an enchantress by trade.” She offered a half smile, and raised the bowl of soup up towards Brynja, “Thank you for the stew.”
Rhona turned attention to Calen where she whispered, “Thank you for bringing my boots to me, and for looking after Tobias.”
“My pleasure.” He responded with a wink.
“Mm.” Brynja’s gaze shifted towards the Breton besides Rhona, “And you? Who are you?”
Nanine looked up from her stew, having been in the process of devouring it. Though she wouldn’t admit it, it had been a while since she had eaten as she’d given her rations to a family that had none. ”Nanine Tilhart, former Imperial Battle Mage turned adventurer for hire. Rhona has graciously offered enchanting lessons to increase mmy meager skills. My appreciations for the stew.” She glanced over at the Khajiit.”I don’t suppose you managed to grab their strange staves did you? The ones that shoot small projectiles and tear through armor.”
“I’m curious as well. It’d be quite beneficial to have some of the weapons used by the Dwemer, if only to learn how to best defend ourselves from them at the very least.” Jaraleet chimed in from his position next to Raelynn once Nanine had stopped speaking. He too was curious if Vasora, or any of the other rangers for that matter, had managed to get their hands on the strange armaments employed by the Deep Elves. “Ah, but where are my manners, my thanks for the stew.” He added, turning to look at Brynja as he spoke. “My name is Jaraleet, former mercenary and, for now, Colovian Ranger, pleased to meet you all.” The Argonian said before turning to look at Daro’Vasora. “Gregor here had told me that you recuperated shortly after I left you in his care.” He said, motioning towards the Imperial before continuing. “But it is nonetheless good to see that you are in good health.” He said to the Khajiit before turning his attention back to his stew. He wouldn’t admit it, but the march back to the refugee camp had tired him greatly and, as such, the assassin was grateful for both the hot food and the campfire.
Gregor smiled and nodded graciously when he was mentioned and gestured towards but said nothing just yet. He had never been the type to interrupt a conversation for something as trivial as an introduction -- that could wait. Instead, he simply looked at Daro'Vasora, for it was her turn to respond.
“I was winded, not bleeding out of my ears. Thanks, though.” Daro’Vasora replied, glancing up at the Argonian for a moment. “You might have been a bit too eager about the whole damsel in distress thing.”
“Ah, I see, my apologies, I was unsure what kind of damage you might have suffered when you fell after prying loose the hatch that kept safe the power source of that Dwemer contraption so I thought it best to leave you in the hands of the mages so they might take a look at you.” The Argonian said. “I apologize if the manner in which I carried you out of the battleground produced discomfort, it seemed the most efficient way to take you out of harm’s way at the moment. And there is no need to thank me, it’s the duty of each and every soldier to aid their brothers and sisters in arms.” Jaraleet said before continuing to eat his stew in silence.
Judena stood empty bowl in hand, having finished her portion. She nervously looked to all the new faces, Brynja asking for their introductions was a good sign they were in fact, new but she desperately hoped she was not misplacing them. She crouched down beside Meg, her hunting and gathering partner. Settling on her haunches. Jaraleet spoke adequately and clearly, she hoped he hailed from Argonia. It had felt like a long time since she had been among other Argonians. To speak freely in her native tongue was a little slice of home.
Since the strange day Durantel had joined Meg and herself, she harboured fresh pangs of courage to read the letters. He held true to his word, he never once spared a glare her way nor rattled mean spirited words her way. Mostly avoiding her outright. Judena felt it was curious behaviour but took no offence.
Latro rejoining the group was indeed spectacular news, those who joined the rangers had returned in one piece and it was truly a relief. Suffering more losses would have been unreasonable after all they had gone through together. She settled her bowl down beside her leg, “Latro it is an enormous relief to see you once again. Fate has a funny way of drawing us all together.”
“To the new faces, I sincerely hope you are new, if not - I deeply apologize for not recalling our first meeting. Please, try not to take offence. My name is Judena Callisar,” she removed her logbook from inside her robes. “For decades I have found joy in appraising ancient artefacts, scouring for history, and using my skills in alteration to discover the past.”
“Daro’Vasora, when you have a moment I would like to hear your thoughts on the dwemer constructs you dealt with first hand. Very valuable observations, I am sure.”
The Khajiit smiled in return. “Tomorrow, when there’s light. I’ve got a pair of walking trophies I’d love to show you. Don’t worry, Judena; I will remind you.”
It was hard to wipe the grin off Meg's face, even while she sipped at her bowl of soup, green eyes watching, taking in the sight before her. Four days. She had to keep reminding herself it had been only that long since she had last seen Brynja and Sora, even though it felt like so much longer She was thrilled to see they were back, and with Latro nonetheless. A sure tear -or was it a few?- had found its way to her eyes, which she continued to blink away even now. She'd had faith she would see Brynja, Daro'Vasora and Sol once more, but Latro? While the small glimmer of hope had remained in her heart, it had been covered by the dark cloak of reality.
Even as she listened to Judena, grinning slightly at her apology to the newcomers, Meg looked from the familiar faces to the less familiar ones, including some she had briefly met in the refugee camp when she wasn't out in the forest. The Nord waved her hand, the look on her face calming slightly as her grin shifted to a smile, though her legs continued to shake excitedly, as was their habit.
"Megana Corvus' my name, but y'all can call me Meg, nice an' short." Though those who had met her in the camp would surely know her name, she was quite sure she had never seen any of the new faces that had accompanied her friends from the Rangers. "Nice t'see you lot." If her older companions trusted them, she would as well. From what it sounded, it seemed quite a lot had happened. Meg couldn't help feeling a little envious, even though glory was never what she was after... rather the adventure.
Mortalmo stared down at his stew as the others exchanged greetings and conversed. He had accepted his portion from the Nord cow reluctantly but without incident. Pride only went so far, and for now, he needed to eat. He lifted the bowl to his lips and paused before taking a sip of the lightly steaming broth. It was... adequate. He took another sip then, eyeing Rhona, and on either side of her, another newcomer. To her left sat the Breton that had introduced herself as Nanine Tilhart, though the more concerning of the two was the figure to Rhona’s right; a Nord pretty boy that looked several shades too slimy for Mortalmo’s taste.
He looked away then, and instead chose to focus on finishing his stew. It was none of Mortalmo’s concern who Rhona chose to consort with. The wretch already rubbed shoulders with a goat, why not a Nord dog? Unfortunately, it would seem that his staring had caught the Nord’s attention.
“I don’t bite, friend!” Calen chirped, extending out a hand from across the way for him to shake. He had hoped to diffuse any awkwardness amongst the group. “What brings the pleasure of your company?”
Mortalmo stared hard at the Nord youth. He glanced down at the outstretched hand and sniffed, before drawing his eyes back up to meet the Nord’s own. “Never have I heard of a dog that did not bite. You may be the first.”
“I only bite if it's asked of me.” Calen said back to Durantel with a wink, though withdrawing his hand nonetheless.
Nanine snorted quietly. Durantel was a typical High Elf, but Calen certainly seemed able to handle it and then some.
Brynja stretched her legs out before her, and groaned at his words, “Don’t pay him much mind,” she cautioned, before glancing at Durantel sideways, “Still haven’t forgotten that you called me a cow, Durantel. And yet you eat my stew without a complaint.” Her eyebrows rose at him, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile. Her gaze shifted to Rhona who procured a wooden pipe, and packed it full of herbs. A stream of fire leapt from her fingertips igniting the pipe, where she blew the smoke out her nose as she tipped her head back, seemingly avoiding both Nanine and the Nord.
“A cow that can cook is certainly something worth commending.” Mortalmo quipped back. “Your stew was palatable and for that I am grateful.”
Her expression turned to surprise at Durantel’s unexpected compliment, “Well… thank you.” She cleared her throat, avoiding any sentiment, and turned her attention back to the blond Nord, “So, what do you call yourself? And moreover, what’s a fellow Nord doing all the way down here in Cyrodiil?”
Anifaire took a seat next to Durantel, grateful for the hot stew that was available. Without even considering the flavour or those around her, she sat and began to eat quickly. Manners stuck with her, and she tried to slow down after a few bites to be polite. She was simply grateful for the hot meal, as, with the others ducking in and out of camp and her lack of cooking skills, she’d had sparse full meals and a lot of bread in recent days.
“Calen,” he responded, “Calen Smallwood -- family name, that; not an earned one. Mayhaps hoping to change that. Ah, but jokes aside, I was just hoping to see more of Tamriel. Then, well… I guess I got roped into this mess at just the right time when people were trying to escape. Helped to get them here, as much good as that did ‘em. At least they're alive, though.”
“Calen!” Gregor suddenly exclaimed, a roguish grin on his face. “That's it. I'd forgotten your name. Nice to see you again, but unexpected, so far from home.” The heavily-armed Imperial raised a hand in a proper greeting and tucked a loose strand of hair back behind his ear with the other. He'd already finished his stew by now, his silence having allowed him to eat as fast as possible without staining his beard, and he figured now was a good time to make himself known. It wasn't everyday he ran into old acquaintances from his time in the North. “Do you remember me? My name is Gregor. I made use of your carriage service a year or two ago.”
He then turned to look at the rest of the assembled Rangers, mages, travellers and oddities and inclined his head in their direction. “Pleased to meet you all, by the by,” Gregor added, his grin having diminished into a warm and genuine smile.
“Gregor!” Calen repeated aloud, throwing his hand across the clearing once more for good shake with a look of remembrance and a huge toothy grin. “The Vigilant if I'm not mistaken! And here I thought Tamriel was hiding a great, wide world on the other side of those mountains. It would seem that it couldn't be smaller!”
Gregor’s face betrayed nothing. “I worked with the Vigilants, yes, but close enough. Good memory.” Calen looked like his first introduction with war hadn’t changed him a bit. It was nice to see some unbridled enthusiasm in the midst of this sudden and devastating conflict. “Small world, indeed. Glad to have you here. Either way, I’ll stop hogging the limelight. Once again, nice to meet you all,” Gregor said and leaned back a little, emphasizing that he was done talking.
Raelynn didn't want to eat the stew. It was filled with an assortment of foraged foods of questionable quality. The entire thing just sat in the bowl taunting her. She'd eaten worse, sure, but looking into the miserably desperate bowl made her appetite disappear. She dragged her spoon back and forth through the now starchy broth. She longed for something real. To be at a table with people of her stature. Dignified individuals. She longingly imagined how it would feel to sit on an actual cushion, to drape herself in fabrics.
She took a few pathetic mouthfuls of the stew before placing the bowl at her side. That would be it. If anyone were to ask she would simply explain that she was tired and felt too sickly to eat it. Or she'd tell them that fresh manure would have been preferable - depending of course entirely on who would ask her why she was leaving such a full bowl. Stew is for peasants with no teeth! she thought to herself as she got up to take a wander around the camp.
Everyone was seemingly occupying themselves with idle chatter, she rolled her eyes at it all. It was all so ridiculous. Here they were, in the middle of a catastrophe and yet they found time to sing, gossip, and scoff down bowls of shite. She wanted out of here, she wanted a bed, a real fireplace and some privacy. It was all starting to grind on the Breton mage. Her hair was looking frazzled, her cloak all but destroyed, she hadn't eaten food with flavour since her last morning in the Imperial City.
She retreated out of sight of them into shadows and started… crying. But she was crying silently. Just long empty sobs with no sound. She kept it in but felt the hot tears well up under her now dull and overtired eyes. She felt haggard and ugly, like she was going to waste away. She slumped down onto her knees and stayed that way while she continued to weep, in the only slightly private spot she had found herself in.
Jaraleet had continued to eat his bowl of stew in silence, but continued to pay attention to the conversations around him. It seemed that he had found himself amidst a group that had travelled together for quite some time, if the banter and atmosphere of familiarity where any indication. The scene brought on a sense of nostalgia to the Haj-Eix, as he remembered his fellow brothers and sisters who still remained in Argonia and, in some cases, scattered throughout the rest of Tamriel.
Any further thoughts were interrupted when he noticed that Raelynn leaving the perimeter of the campfire. It hadn’t taken him too long to notice that the mood of the Breton healer was heavy, a fact that was rather evident by her apparent lack of appetite and silence throughout the conversation. He briefly pondered whether or not to go looking after her, but in the end decided against it; they hadn’t known each other for too long and he doubted that his presence would be welcome, not to mention the fact that, in truth, the assassin didn’t care all too much for how Raelynn felt. He was grateful towards her for healing his wounds, but asides from that the Saxhleel hadn’t much attachment towards her.
He thought about chatting with Gregor, the only other person with whom he had exchanged more than a few words aside from Raelynn, but the Imperial seemed busy chatting with Calen. The self-proclaimed Imperial Battlemage seemed rather busy….staring at a few of the individuals gathered near the campfire. A strange thing to do, for sure, but Jaraleet decided not to bother her, although it did make him suspicious of Nanine. “It is a pleasure to meet you Meg, and you as well Raj-Deelith Callisar. It is always an honor to speak to one such as you.” Jaraleet said, deciding to join in the conversations happening around the campfire. “I don’t recall having seen either of you amongst the Rangers, I take it that you two stayed here?” He asked both women curiously.
"Aye, we stayed here," Meg piped in, looking at the new Argonian. She had seen Argonians in Riften as a child and later as a wanderer near Windhelm, but she'd never actually had the chance to make a proper conversation with more than a couple until now. Judena had been the first she had grown close to, and it was a nice thought that she could make another acquaintance of the same race.
"We decided t'go foraging' an' help out with those who stayed behind," she continued. "I gotta say though, sounds like y'all had the adventurin' of a lifetime out there!"
Judena perked up at Raj-Deelith, she flapped her hand at Jaraleet, “Honoured Elder! Please you may call me Judena or Jude. There is no need for honorifics here, I am simply happy to see you. As Meg said, we spent our time here collecting food - scarce as it has been. I decided to stay behind and Meg joined me to keep company. Would not have been half as successful without her.” She grinned at the Nord, “I am relieved to see those who joined the rangers returned safely.” Raelynn’s departure from the fireside did not go unnoticed. Perhaps the stew did not agree with the kindly breton?
"Aye," Meg agreed, setting down her now empty bowl. "Sure am glad t'see them again. Who'da thought four days felt like four months, eh?" With that said, she looked to Jaraleet. "Uhh... what's that word y'called Jude? Ra- er- somethin'?"
“Raj-Deelith, it is a word in our native tongue of Jel to refer to honored elders.” Jaraleet replied in response to Meg’s inquiry, smiling towards the Nord woman. “My apologies, I sometimes forget that our native tongue isn’t so widely known.” He said, bowing his head slightly as a sign of apology before turning to look at Jude.
“I’ll try and remember that Raj…..Judena.” The assassin said, just realizing midway that he was referring to Jude with the honorifice once again. He had to admit that he felt embarrassed, something that he had not felt since he had been a small hatchling and his trainers chastised him for stupid mistakes. He shook his head to clear his thoughts before continuing to speak, “Aye, many of us managed to return safely thanks to the help of the mages amongst the Rangers. But others were not so lucky, and I am sure that most of us are returning with new scars. I know I do at least.” He said grimly, his hand moving to his left side and hovering over the cauterized wound. “The Dwemer are a terrible foe, but the victory today proves that they can be defeated.” The Saxhleel said, smiling towards both Jude and Meg once he was done talking.
Meg was reminded of her own wound, caused more by stupidity and far less exciting story than she believed was the cause for Jaraleet's wound. Still, at least it was healing, and mostly it was a dull pain now, serving only to remind her to be much more vigilant from now on.
"Sure's nice t'hear that," she said as she stretched out her legs towards the fire. "The day they came to the city... I just ran. As hard as I could." She shook her head. "Still kinda surprised I didn' get killed in all that chaos."
Judena patted Meg’s shoulder comfortingly. She addressed Jaraleet, “Do not fret Jarheap. Even if you were to forget I would not hold it against you.”
Jaraleet was confused by the way Judena had called him, but thought best of bringing it up and merely nodded towards the elder Saxhleel with a smile. “You shouldn’t be ashamed Meg.” He added in response to the comment made by the Nord woman. “We were caught by surprise, there was nothing we could do. I too was forced to run from the Imperial City, so do not be ashamed of your actions that day.” He said, offering the woman a smile. “Plus, I’m sure that you’ll have plenty of chances in the days to come to repay the Dwemer for forcing us all to flee from battle.”
"Heh..." Meg appreciated both Judena's comforting pat as well as Jaraleet's words. "I'm countin' on it... those bastards gotta pay for all this." This was accompanied by her hand motioning towards the refugee camp in general. "I'm just... I'm still stumped. I mean... first dragons, now dwemer... what next?"
“It does not matter.” Jaraleet said quietly in response to Meg’s words, looking down at his empty bowl. “Don’t mistake my words for indifference of what you are going through, it is natural to be confused in such times.” The assassin continued to speak, looking at Meg directly in the eyes. “Yet, all the same, it doesn’t changes anything. We are soldiers right now, no matter what we were before the Dwemer came, and our sole purpose is to defeat the Deep Elves and protect the rest of Tamriel.” He spoke with conviction, settling his empty bowl down and reaching for his backpack. “But, that doesn’t matters for the moment.” He said as he retrieved a bottle from the pack.
He uncorked the bottle and took a swig of its content, letting out a contented sigh. “Would you like some? It’s Theilul, a type of Argonian rum. I managed to salvage this from my home before fleeing.” The assassin said with a smile, extending the bottle towards Jude and Meg.
Meg thought about it a moment before allowing her grin to return. It seemed like forever since that drunk night in Imperial City. "Why not?" She reached out and took hold of the bottle, not in the slightest bit worried that it may be too strong for her to drink. Bringing the bottle to her lips, she took swig of the Theilul, blinking as she swallowed. "Huh, that's different." She took a quick second sip before offering the bottle to Judena, though she was unsure if her friend would partake or not.
Judena declined. “Thank you, Jarnolle. That is kind, but that rum has not sat well with me ever since I was a youth. I found nord mead and wines to be a bit more preferable.”
“Ah, that’s a shame. But I suppose that only means that there’s more for me, and for Meg if she wishes to drink more.” The Argonian said with a smile, hiding his confusion, and slight discomfort, at the fact that Judena seemed unable to recall his name after such a short while. He took the bottle of Theilul and took another swig before offering it to Meg once again, giving her a quizzical look alongside of his offer of the bottle. A sort of unspoken question about Judena’s confusion about his name.
Taking one more swig, enjoying the drink with every gulp, Meg noticed the look on the other Argonian's face. "Ah, Judena kinda forgets stuff, but ya just gotta remind her an' she'll do her best t'remember. She writes down lotsa notes as well, bloody useful t'be honest. I'm sure she'll write down your name when she gets a chance." She took a smaller sip this time before holding the bottle out for Jaraleet to take.
“Ah.” Jaraleet said as he took the bottle, taking a small sip of its content before speaking again. “My thanks Meg, I’ll endeavor to remind Judena of my name in case she forgets about it again.” The Argonian said, taking yet another drink of the Theilul before offering the bottle again to Meg. They continued to share the contents of the bottle until it was empty, with Jaraleet listening in on the other conversations going around the campfire in silence.
Nanine settled back next to Rhona, enjoying the smell of the woman’s pipe even if she herself didn’t smoke, as the conversation swirled around them, her empty stew bowl beside her. With nothing to add to the conversation, she turned her efforts to remembering particular faces she wanted to draw later. Meg, with her slightly wild grin and visibly vibrating with excitement, like someone had trapped lightning and it was just so happy to be here. Nani had to smile at the sight. It was cute.
Durantel, with his disdainful facial expressions and words, was cold, but not cold enough to hide something that lurked just behind his eyes, like a glacier on top of the flooded ruins of Winterhold, hiding deep secrets. Was it longing? Regret? Nanine couldn’t tell. Perhaps she was just imagining it, wistfully thinking that life imitates the stories.
With Gregor it was far easier to tell what emotion was in his eyes. The thing that kept his charms from fully reaching his face. The man was driven, and driven harshly. Something bore on him, something he couldn’t escape, like a violent thunderstorm gathering atop a mountain, ready to bring ruin to the small village beneath it. His secrets were his own, however, and Nanine’s interest remained artistic.
The other Altmer, the younger one, looked out of place. It might have been her general demeanor, that of someone who had just recently been thrown into circumstances like this, or perhaps it was how she tried to retain her manners despite being just as hungry as Nanine herself had been. Regardless, she reminded the Breton mage of an ornate teapot, left out in the middle of the woods.
The Khajiit brought a wry smile to her face, looking like...well, like a cat who had just caught its prey, and was smugly laying in the sun and enjoying its victory. Nanine had to wonder, however, if the possible consequences for destroying and airship and stealing the suits even crossed the other woman’s mind, or if she was too busy basking in the glow of victory to think of the future. Nanine’s eyes almost unconsciously shifted between these five people, striving to commit their expressions and body language to memory. It was a strange, and doubtlessly creepy, way to start her first interactions with them, but she couldn’t help herself.
“Lady, you’re being creepy.” Daro’Vasora confirmed, handing the lute over to Latro so she could accept a bowl of the stew herself. “So what kind of maiming is on your mind? Rug, fur coat, boot liners? Try me, I’ve heard everything. The only people who stare like you do either want to murder someone or screw their brains out. Sometimes both, I don’t judge.” She sniffed the bowl before shrugging and taking a spoonful. “Much.”
Nanine gave a start, realizing she’d been staring too long again. Embarrassment colored her cheeks, and she floundered. ”Oh, by the Nine, I did it again. Shit! I told myself I wouldn’t do this.”While she struggled to articulate, Rhona spoke up.
Rhona chewed thoughtfully on the stem of her pipe, smoke rolling out of her nostrils. She gave Nanine a sideways glance before turning her attention to the Khajiit, “I’m certain Nanine means no harm. After all,” she swept her hand out, gesturing to everyone gathered around the campfire, “it is a curious sight to see so many different faces seated around one such place. From my travels, Mara has brought many a curious face across my path, and sometimes… those people become our allies, even if for a short time.”
“Yup, we were all brought here out of Mara’s love, and not the totally far-fetched idea that there’s thousands of people from a city in one place who’ve been displaced by a Dwemer invasion. I wish I had your optimism, or whatever drugs you partake in.” The Khajiit replied deadpan, carelessly eating the contents of the bowl. “My apologies, but allies is a strong word for someone I’ve never even seen before. What do you do, exactly?”
She pulled the pipe out of her mouth, considering both Daro’Vasora and her words carefully, before turning her pipe upside down and tapping it against the ground, removing the ashes effectively. Tobias had wandered off into the darkness behind her, most likely finding himself something delectable to munch on.
Rhona shook her head, a ghost of a smile appearing before vanishing altogether, “Forgive my broad words, but I meant those here, present in this circle. Not the thousands of troubled souls beyond this fire. Think what you will about me, I cannot change the winds of Kynareth, it is her breath that guides me across the lands. The first path I crossed was that of Calen’s, and here he sits--” Calen waved his hand, “--I next crossed Nanine’s, and here she sits. Then it was Durantel, and he is a part of this group. As you were with the Rangers during these last few days dealing the Dwemer a deadly blow, I had the opportunity to meet your fellow companions, Megana, Judena, Alim, and Rhea. And here they all are.” She shrugged a bit haphazardly, “And now here you are.”
“I said it before, but in case you didn’t hear, I shall repeat myself. I am an enchantress by trade. I’ve travelled across Cyrodiil and beyond for the last couple years.” Rhona blinked slowly, before turning towards her rucksack, rummaging around until she found what she sought, she refilled her pipe, relit it, and stuck it back her mouth. Before her eyebrows rose, “Would you care for some? It’s just Mugwort and lavender. It has a natural relaxing effect.” She extended the pipe towards her.
“I never realized that an invitation for a meal and a fire was divine intervention. Perhaps I should have blamed lady Kynareth for the lack of attendance at my childhood birthday parties.” The Khajiit replied, turning down the pipe with an extended palm. “So, enchantress, huh? Are we talking making men walking weapons of destruction or faire trinkets that allegedly improve your sex life while lowering your appetite? One of which would be useful in present circumstances, the other if your name is Durantel and want to be somewhat appealing towards courting a woman.”
“How about the stew? I thought the stew was great.” Calen awkwardly interjected, trying to diffuse the tension.
“It’s not bad. Could use more skeever chunks, those little shits are everywhere.” Daro’Vasora said agreeably.
“At least someone likes it,” Brynja nodded her thanks to Calen before turning to glower at Vasora, “Well you don’t have to eat it, y’know.” She resisted the urge to knock the bowl out of her hands, but thought better of it. This was just how Vasora was, it would take her time to trust anyone, much like herself.
Nanine focused herself, a sheen of frost covering her gauntlets as she connected with magic to calm her flustered nerves, grateful that the conversation had moved on.
Rhona shook her head, laughing softly, “Over 9 years of experience enchanting weapons, amulets, circlets, rings, clothing, and armor. There’s only a few enchantments I’ve yet to learn, but yes, turning men into walking weapons I can do.” Her tone changed, “As for helping men court women, that is outside of my expertise. Love is… not my forte, I can’t enchant the hearts and minds of men.”
“I beg to differ.” Calen muttered beneath a barely contained smirk. Rhona glanced at him, her cheeks turning a rosy shade of pink, and then quickly turned her attention back to Daro’Vasora.
“Oh hush, Brynja, it’s just fine. I might even get seconds if it lasts that long.” Daro’Vasora assured the Nord. She pulled the mace from her belt, holding it out so it caught the firelight. “So, let’s say I wanted this enchanted to cause paralysis after smashing someone’s kneecap. Is that something you can do?”
“It’s not one I’ve done often, but I know it, and can do it, if you have the coin of course. Soul gems aren’t cheap.”
Daro’Vasora pouted. “And so much for being allies. We’re supposed to look after each other.” she said with a wink. “Tell you what, I’ll think on it and see if I can’t find something worth your while. I’ve spent my time around Tamriel the past few years digging up artifacts and selling them off, I know what’s worth more than a few coins for your trouble. I might like you after all.”
Rhona nodded in agreement, “Fair enough, you find me something of value, and I’ll enchant that mace of yours. Same goes for the rest of you.”
“A dagger with the potential to paralyze an opponent would be a most welcome utility.” Mortalmo sized Rhona up. Was this asking too much of the Breton? How much she valued the services he offered would remain to be seen. “Perhaps I would have use for an enchanter after all, girl.”
She shifted uneasily, Durantel had proved a most dutiful teacher in the past few days, and what he had taught her was helpful already. In her eyes, the least she could do was to fulfill a simple request as his. Rhona took a puff from her pipe, smoke seeping out from the corners of her mouth, “But of course.” It dawned on her then, that since she hadn’t seen Calen in three days time, she had no idea if he had seen Cezare again. She swallowed hard.
The Altmer bowed his head. “I am most thankful. And be assured that I will earn this boon.”
Alim poked his head into the small clearing, leaves and a twig in his thick mane of hair. They had decided to have a party without him? “Oh…” he said, squinting. “I see how it is.”
Judena glanced around at the rustling nearby, Raelynn still on her own but the sudden appearance of the rogue had Jude waving Alim over, “Come Alim, the bush is no place to get dinner. We would know, having already checked ourselves!” Cackling a little at her own joke, knowing he would appreciate the attempt.
Nanine had finally managed to stop her embarrassment, the frost dissipating from her gauntlets. She needed to explain herself before Daro’Vasora’s narrative took hold.”I apologize if I made anyone uncomfortable, earlier. I draw in my spare time, and like to draw specific moments in my journal later. Like an adventurer lightly strumming a lute, eager to brag about her victories over an enemy not seen in centuries, basking in the glow of victory and the warmth of a campfire. So I tend to unconsciously stare at people or things in those moments to try and capture every detail, even though I only need a few moments to remember things perfectly. So no maiming on my mind and no screwing for you I’m afraid.” Nanine smirked lightly. ” You’ll have to find someone else’s private life to judge.”
Gregor had followed the conversation with no small measure of amusement. Daro’Vasora’s caustic wit and devil-may-care attitude reminded him of some of the smarter Nords he’d met during his time in Skyrim, and wasn’t characteristic of her race at all. It was always funny to see people defying stereotypes. The male Altmer was predictably condescending, but beyond that there was a sharpness in his gaze that Gregor had only seen in the most cunning of people before. And so his thoughts went round the campfire’s attendees, forming first impressions, creating opinions… but there was a part of him in the back of his mind that rendered far more sinister judgements, like a whisper at the edge of his hearing.
Not a threat. Not a threat. Might become a threat. Not a threat. Dangerous, be watchful. Not a threat…
“So, Nanine,” the Imperial said after clearing his throat and smiled. “What do you make of this handsome mug of mine, eh?” Gregor’s tone made it clear that he was jesting, following in Calen’s footsteps when it came to keeping the mood light, but only half. He really was curious what someone so experienced in observation would make of him now. After everything.
“Hope you don't mind settling for second best!” Calen immediately pitched in, raising his mug of whatever mystery drink they were serving and winking at Gregor with a humored smile. This earned him a sharp look from Durantel, though the elf remained silent.
Nanine paused a moment, smiling at the banter, as she studied Gregor’s face. “You’ve certainly been blessed with good looks and an eternal youthfulness that elude most, but age is beginning to catch up with you. It is small, a wrinkle here, a grey hair there, but it exists. You’ve the build and easy movements of an adventurer, as with most of us here.” She paused, chuckling lightly. “And the easy charisma of someone who knows he’s blessed with good looks.”
Her voice became quieter as she moved onto the shadow that hung over him. “Unlike the rest of us, however, there’s something else. Something in the way you move, something in your eyes. You move as if you have the weight of the world on your shoulders, and as if it never quite leaves your mind. It prevents your smiles from filling your eyes, your laughs from being as loud as they could be. You move as if you’re being chased. Whatever it is, it’s not as simple as the death of a loved one, or a betrayal. People driven by that have different looks, a smoldering rage or a burning desire in their eyes. The look behind your eyes is...intense. And unyielding. Like steel.”
The easygoing half-smile on Gregor’s face slowly disappeared as Nanine talked, his dark eyes locked into her grey gaze. It was the first time someone had paid sufficient attention to him to read between the lines since he’d come back from Skyrim. A dark look fell over his features, their beauty briefly stolen by melancholy and the very steel that she spoke of, and Gregor finally averted his gaze when she was done talking, her judgement rendered. He briefly opened his mouth, as if to speak, but appeared to think better of it and closed it again. Gregor felt the eyes of the others on him now while images of the horrible things he’d seen and done raced through his mind.
Suddenly, and without warning, he climbed to his feet, brushing the leaves out of his cloak before his hands went over his various sheaths and holsters, absent-mindedly performing the same gear check he had done a hundred times over. “That was… quite perceptive, Nanine,” he managed, the act of getting up to leave returning some measure of control over the situation back to him that allowed him to speak. “We all have our demons. If you’ll excuse me, I have to…”
Gregor trailed off and gestured vaguely with his hands towards the rest of the refugee encampment behind him. He cleared his throat, squared his shoulders and, after a final curt nod, set off at a brisk pace into the gloom.
Nanine watched him go, murmuring, “Perhaps it’d be best if I stopped talking the rest of the night.”
Mortalmo watched the Imperial take his leave with narrowed eyes. That one warranted caution.
A silence filled the camp at Gregor’s departure, one that made even Brynja feel unsettled. She cleared her throat, and turned her attention to Alim, “Well it’s about time you got here,” she grunted as she climbed to her feet, where she filled a bowl of stew, and handed it off to him before claiming a bottle of ale for herself. She settled down beside Daro’Vasora, where she uncorked the bottle.
“Where’ve you been, Alim? Off chasing skirts again?” She took a mighty swig from her bottle, and pointed it at him, her eyebrows raised as the corners of her lips turned upwards.
Alim had his mouth half full of one of the chicken legs that was roasting on the fire, and he nearly choked on it when she spoke. The spellsword banged on his chest with his fist as he swallowed what he could. “I take offense to that, I don’t chase skirts!” He declared. Though you could tell he wasn’t truly hurt. He opened his mouth to clarify, but it took him a moment to find the words. “I just enjoy flirting... and if the flirting bears fruit, then you know I won’t complain.” He placed his hand on his chest for emphasis.
“Besides,” he began. “My true passion is shiny things, adventure, and then women...in that order generally. Unless the woman happens to be interested in me too, then the others take a back seat.” He spoke matter of fact as if it was the natural order of things. “All three are preferable however...ANYWAY, enough about me. What has been happening here while I was napping?” He asked. Without warning, it looked as if he plucked a flute out of the air, though quick eyes would see he had grabbed it from his pack at this side. He didn’t play just yet however, instead wanting to hear the answer first. He’d only give a tune to keep the hearty vibe going, anyway.
Brynja shrugged, “The newcomers were introducing themselves. We’ve Nanine, Rhona and Calen,” She gestured to the trio seated together, “Then you just missed Gregor, and there’s Jaraleet, both from the Rangers… and by the Gods! Latro is alive!” She leaned forward suddenly, double checking to make certain he still remained at Daro’Vasora’s side. She nodded, and then leaned backwards again.
“It is a pleasure to meet you Alim, from the familiar tone I take it you are part of this group rather than a recent acquaintance, no?” Jaraleet interjected at the mention of his name, giving a slight bow of his head in the direction of the Redguard.
Alim listened to Brynja, and then gave a smile at the mention of Gregor. They hadn’t been properly introduced but even that small glimpse, he could see the man had been somewhat flustered. But then, an Argonian! “Ah, tis a pleasure sir.” He said, and held his hand out to shake. He wasn’t sure if that was the correct gesture to give to one of the Black Marsh peoples but he was certain Jaraleet would find it polite. “Always good to have an Argonian on board.” He said. From his experience, they were often very skilled at whatever they put their minds to, and Alim valued skill highly.
Jaraleet smiled and shook Alim’s outstretched hand firmly. “Ah, you are too kind.” He said with a light chuckle at the mention that it was good to have another Argonian on board. “I’m a mere recent acquaintance, I’m not sure if I could be considered to be ‘on board’ as you put.” He said, scratching the back of his neck slightly as he pondered on Alim’s words. “Though, truth be told, I wouldn’t be opposed to the notion, given the present situation.” He added before chuckling once more. “Ah, but that is not for me to decide, is it? You’ve already shown me a great kindness by inviting me to share in your food, it would be impolite of me to request more.” Said the assassin with a smile.
Mortalmo eyed Jaraleet appraisingly. “What are your capabilities, scaled one? This ensemble has faced significant peril in the past few weeks alone. It would not be in the best interest of one lacking worldly experience to go down any road with us.” The lizard did not appear incompetent as far as the Mer could gauge, though it would never do to overestimate a mere animal.
“Well, I know my way around a blade better than most I’d say.” Jaraleet spoke in response to Durantel’s inquiry, patting the sheaths in which his sword and dagger rested. “But, aside from that, I’m also adept at sneaking by enemies should the need arise. Quite useful for scouting ahead of battle, in my opinion.” The Argonian continued on. “I’m also proficient in making alchemical concoctions, which could prove useful in the days to come.” He said, deciding to omit that his knowledge of alchemy was rather confined to the making of poisons rather than any of the more beneficial concoctions for which most alchemists were known.
“Very well. I do not claim to be the leader of this assortment by any stretch, though I believe I speak for all here that possess sense when I say that I suspect you would be an asset, rather than a hindrance.” Maybe Mortalmo’s words would ring true; if he had to guess, the time for the Argonian to place some substance behind his statements would arrive soon enough. Surely this group was a beacon for strife.
“Thank you for your kind words.” Jaraleet said in response. He knew that the Altmer’s words weren’t said out of mere kindness, not after the display he had done when Calen had attempted to be friendly towards him, but the Haj-Eix had no desire to be confrontational with him, especially if he had been travelling with this group for long. The Altmer had proclaimed that he wasn’t the leader of the group, but his words still could carry some weight behind them and, as such, Jaraleet preferred to be polite. “I know that my words aren’t sufficient to earn me a place amongst you, after all trust is a precious commodity that shouldn’t be squandered. Especially not in times such as these ones, but, if you give me a chance, I can promise you that it’ll be worth it.”
“If you can swing a blade as good as you say, then you’ll be of use to us.” Brynja nodded her head in agreement. After all this time Rhea still hadn’t said a word, she figured that she must’ve been exhausted. “It’s always good to have another blade around.” Durantel nodded his assent at Brynja’s words.
Anifaire had finished her stew, and was looking at the pot, her stomach still unsatisfied. She found was less uncomfortable in the presence of these strange people than she had been at first, even with the new additions. It seemed this was the way her life was, now. She was glad Alim had arrived, and wondered if he would play his flute.
Durantel’s speaking had drawn more attention to their side of the fire than she would have liked, and she shrunk a bit away from him. She felt self conscious, both because of the new faces and that she looked far from the noblewoman she was, her skin and clothes uncomfortably filthy and torn up.
“Among other strange things we have witnessed, that we have no doubt seen the last of.” Judena commented, scratching at her ‘beard’ as she spoke, she glanced at Anifaire. “We are in no short of capable minds to match our brawn. We need to confer, share thoughts and expertise. Anifaire,” Judena looked to the downtrodden Mer, perhaps she would appreciate some distraction. “Is one of the experts on Dwemer, she specializes in studying them. Was it culture you focused on or technology?”
Anifaire looked up in surprise when Judena spoke, but the topic brightened her mood. “I studied mostly language in particular, but of course, language impacts and is impacted by culture, so it is wider than that.” She paused. “What do you study?” She still found it odd that this Argonian was studying something so in depth.
“That is amazing! Perhaps with your help we can try to understand what they are saying, Anifaire. Demystify them.” Judena enthused. “I simply study and date artifacts. Find out how old they are, where they are from, who was once connected to
them. Then I remove those centuries, restoring them back the best I can discovering things hidden by age. If you want my dear you are invited to sit and watch as I work. Piece restoration is truly inspiring.” She said happy to see Anifaire engaged. Truly it would take a dedicated team, resources, and workspace to continue their study of the Dwemer in depth but they could make due by crafting theories while on the road.
“I would love to watch some of your work,” Anifaire replied.
Nanine perked up at the mention of Judena dating and restoring artifacts. She’d have to see if the old argonian could verify her family’s stories about her blade.
Mortalmo rose to his feet then, glancing about those still gathered around the campfire. “If you would all be so gracious, I think I will take my leave of your company now.” He glanced up at the darkened sky. “The night drags on, and I must say my prayers.” The Mer turned on his heel then, and retreated from the soft glow that the fire provided. Rhona watched him leave, she would need to rest soon, he had promised to continue her training tomorrow.
By the time Solandil had sorted his errands for the day and found his company, he found several had already retired for the night - and they were also joined by newcomers. Some were still eating, and upon seeing a still bubbling pot of stew over the fire, Sol felt great relief. Since the Ranger’s arrival back to camp, Sol had spent several hours trying to find an affordable blacksmith to repair the broken leather strap on his chest-plate. Of course, in a camp such as this one, any kind of labour required payment. Even if he had had money available, all people wanted was food and water, each of which he had sparse amounts that he was unwilling to part with. After several rejections and failure of intimidating folk into doing it out of goodwill, Sol had simply haphazardly knotted the two frayed ends together, leaving the plate lopsided, but steady. For now, anyway.
Joining the circle of companions, Sol slumped into a sitting position beside the young rogue Meg with a sigh, dumping his battered armour beside him. His shirt still remained damaged and leaving his skin to the open air, but at this point Sol was far too hungry and tired to give a damn. Glancing at Brynja, his fingers traced his chest absent-mindedly, reminded of the wound that no longer sat there.
She rose to her feet, and filled a bowl of stew, part of her wondering just how they ended up with so many wooden bowls. Brynja handed the bowl over to Solandil, a small smile on her face, “It’s about time you got back. We’re almost out of stew.”
Meg had just been about to stand up, a yawn smothered by her hand when she noticed Solandil had sat down next to her. It had indeed been a long time since she had seen him, and if she was being honest, he was a much more appealing sight that Durantel. Sure, the other Altmer wasn't as insufferable as before, but she was still slightly iffy around him.
"Long time no see!" she greeted. "Glad t'see you're in one piece." She looked to Brynja as well, smiling. "Same's for you too, y'know. I missed you 'round here!"
Brynja nodded at her, “It’s nice to know you’re all alive and well. I hope you didn’t get into anything too dangerous while I was away.” She narrowed her eyes at Meg before winking.
“Uh…” Meg blinked before glancing sideways, sheepish look finding itself on her face. “Not really! Been pretty quiet ‘sides the obvious.” She did not want to be scolded for her little misadventure!
“Mm, well that’s good to hear.” Brynja said through a stifled yawn. The hour was late, she’d have to get some rest soon.
Meg chuckled at Brynja, seeing the other Nord was as tired as she was. "There's lots I wanna catch up with both of you, but I'mma leave it 'til the morn when we're all rested an' not talking slurred an' eyes half closed." She gave a friendly pat to Sol's shoulder as she came to a stand, stifling another yawn with her free hand. "Sleep well y'all." Waving at everyone in general, she trotted off in search of her bedspread and sweet dreams.
Judena watched Durantel’s departure, eyes on his back. The pages of her logbook remembered their strange day, she dug the butt of her spear into the ground pulling herself to stand. “I hope you have a pleasant evening, Durantel. We will see you on the morrow.” Her tone was pleasant but her eyes burrowed. While it may come as strange for her to address the Altmer now, perhaps she would share what had happened with someone. Another perspective might clear the clouds surrounding it. As she was, she was content spending time by the warm fire light and commit new names with their faces to memory.
Mortalmo stopped momentarily in his tracks, now nearly entirely shrouded by the blackness of night. Without turning around, he called back, “And you as well, Judena.” His voice was strained, though with each syllable spoken, the something made an effort to snag some of that tautness away. “May you have a satisfactory slumber.” Then he was gone.
Jaraleet observed the interaction between Judena and Durantel in silence. The departure of the Altmer, and particularly his comment on how late it was, reminded the Saxhleel of how much time it had passed since he had gotten a good night of rest and, as such, he decided to retire as well. “I think I’ll follow in Durantel’s footsteps and retire for the night. My thanks for the stew, and for allowing me to join you as well.” He spoke to the gathered members of the group, “If it’s acceptable to you all, I’ll pitch in my tent close to those belonging to you.” He added, waiting for an answer before picking up his rucksack and stepping away from the campfire to pitch his tent.
“By all means,” Brynja said, nodding her head in approval at the Argonian, “and I’m off to sleep as well.” She rose to her feet, stretching one more time before she departed from the warmth of the campfire to her own tent.
Nanine watched Durantel leave with curiosity. She found it odd that the Altmer would be even moderately civil to the Argonians of the group, but call Calen a dog. Usually people hated the beast races more than they hated the others. Something to think about later.
“It appears the night is drawing to a close. Thank you again for your hospitality and, if it is not too much to ask a bit more from you, I’ll be sleeping next to the fire.” Nanine began her nightly ritual, undoing her earrings and carefully storing them in her pack, before bringing out a brush to take care of her hair. The motions were automatic by now, and she hummed lightly to herself. She’d take care of her sword later.
Calen set the wooden bowl by his foot; it was licked clean of every drop of stew that was served in it, and he looked up at the battlemage as she packed her belongings together, thinking with careful consideration if he wanted to--
“I have a covered wagon.” Calen said abruptly. Not so careful, evidently. His disposition was nonchalant, matter-of-factly; his proposition was one made out of generosity less so than it was out of any lecherous intent. Gesturing to the rest of those who remained around the campfire, the bard continued, “It’s warm, private -- and the offer’s open to any of you, if you don’t have a place to rest your head or anything. It’s no big deal.”
Rhona stood up, taking the gesture from those that headed off to bed, that it was time for her to do so as well. Tobias’ head swiveled up at the sound of her getting to her feet, and trotted over to her. He let out a small bleat as he rubbed his head against her leg. She stooped to pet him, and sighed, “I’ll be going to bed as well, goodnight.” And with that, she slipped into the shadows, Tobias trailing behind her.
Anifaire huddled as close to the fire as she could manage once the others had headed off. She wasn’t sure if anyone had noticed her presence by the fire at night. When Nanine had mentioned she would be sleeping by the fire, as well, Anifaire first instinct had been panic. That was awful close for a stranger to be sleeping. But the panic faded quickly. All of her experiences these past few days had been uncomfortable, and she’d basically resigned herself to not experiencing a comfortable setting again anytime soon. In order to get out of here she needed money, and for that, she needed a bank - which would be inside the city. And there were the Dwemer to contend with.
Usually not one to speak up, Calen’s offer of the wagon was too good to refuse. He had made it clear to be an open offer, and Anifaire stuttered over her words for a few moments, starting sentences and then rephrasing, before she finally spat out, “I would appreciate the shelter for the night.” Her face was red with embarrassment as she looked at Calen, though through the crusted mud and grime it was unlikely to be visible. She would simply be grateful to be off the ground.
“Not just for the night,” Calen added, “for as long as you need. The nights are getting colder, right? I don’t know how many of you have slept outside during a Skyrim winter, but a chill like this never bothered me anyway.”
“Winters in Skyrim are the worst. Especially when you’re on watch in the middle of the night. Thank you for the offer Calen, but I’ll let Anifaire take the wagon. It’s a nice night at anyrate.” Nanine gestured to the sky.
“Thank you… both,” Anifaire said. She gathered her cloak around herself tighter, still covered in mud, but about to sleep off the ground. In all her life, she never thought she would be so grateful for something so small. She’s never even considered she might have to sleep on the ground, let alone doing so coated in mud.
“I have a spare blanket in my pack, and a change of clothes. They might not fit you right, but they’d be better than the mud caked things you have now, at least until they can get washed.” Nanine offered, neglecting to mention that both were her only others. She’d buy more in town if necessary.
Anifaire turned to face the other woman in surprise. “I… really? I would love to wash these. Thank… you.” The generosity around her was both foreign and unexpected. At home, these things had been provided for her without question, and she’d never considered what it would be like to even lack them. Suddenly, she felt like she should have been more grateful to her family’s servants.
“No problem at all.” Nanine said cheerfully, pausing in her brushing of her hair to ruffle through her pack and gather the blanket and spare change of clothes. She got up and handed the folded pile to the High Elf with an earnest smile, before heading back to her pack and resuming brushing her hair.
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A Collab by @BurningCold and @MacabreFox
Skingrad, 5th of Second Seed - Late EveningThe Forest
Little streams of wind whipped at Mortalmo’s ears as he strode from the camp; an irritated cacophony of shrill whistles to exacerbate his already troubled thought process. While the creases forming across his visage betrayed only agitation, his psyche was churning with black thoughts. Ever since the odd confrontation with Judena, he had secluded himself from contact with others, deigning instead to pray. His cries for guidance had fallen on deaf ears. Now though, Mortalmo meant to pursue a different avenue of convalescence. He needed something familiar, something to allow him to exert some measure of control. To that end he ventured beyond the shantytown clinging to Skingrad, and off into the woodland.
He made sure to avoid the route previously taken with Judena and the Nord.
Upon coming across a suitable clearing, Mortalmo extending his arm out carefully, palm held wide open. Purple flickers of arcane energy flitted between the tips of his fingers. A single moment of concentration came and went, and then the spell was cast. Glowering before Mortalmo was a hulking mass of grey flesh, the skin marked by cruel red paints. A violet longsword shimmered into Mortalmo’s still outstretched hand a moment later. The Mer pointed the blade at the Dremora before him.
“Try to kill me.”
After leaving Nanine, Rhona headed out to the forest, she needed to replenish her water skin, and running water was freshest. She kept glancing over her shoulder to make sure that Cezare hadn’t found her. She wondered where had Tobias had run off too, but she knew that Tobias was not a pet, he had chosen her for company and if he wished to leave, she wouldn’t stop him. She picked her way through the trees until she arrived at the stream she had found two days ago. Kneeling, she let the water flow into the leather skin before she closed it off.
“Kynareth, I thank you for giving me this water. Let it nourish my body as your rain nourishes the land.” She kissed the water skin, and rose to her feet. She set off to return when she heard a curious sound not far from her. It sounded like someone was… fighting? Curious, she made her way in the direction of the commotion until she arrived at a clearing.
Mortalmo ducked beneath the swinging arc of the Dremora’s warhammer, delivering a swift cut to the back of the creature’s leg, causing it to drop to one knee. In the next moment, Mortalmo’s ethereal blade had removed the Dremora’s head from its shoulders. Breathing deeply through his nostrils, he watched dispassionately as the corpse toppled to the ground even as it began to fade into ash. The thing had posed a greater challenge than the three that came before it, yet still, for the next fight Mortalmo decided to eschew the longsword in favor of a smaller and more mundane armament. He began to reach for his dagger’s sheathe then, when an interloper made her presence known to him. He narrowed his eyes at the figure across the clearing. Slight, shapely, and with features both rough and fair. Perhaps of Breton descent, at least partially. Certainly she was no pureblood.
Mortalmo raised a hand in greeting, the sharp steel hanging from his belt momentarily forgotten, and took a few steps forward before calling out, “Girl! What is your business and from where do you hail?” His tone was incredulous and rife with irritation.
She startled at his tone, flinching as if she had been struck. Oh what had she gotten herself into now? She took a step forward, but dared not another move. She had to answer him, despite the churning in her gut.
“I came for water, and I heard you…” Rhona gestured at the clearing, indicating that his antics had caught her ear.
He glanced down to the area surrounding him. Several piles of dust and ash dotted the glade. He looked back up at the woman, his expression softening by the barest fraction. “It seems the sounds of my training caught your ears. Now, I shall be more specific in my line of questioning. Do you originate from the camp bordering Skingrad?”
“Well yes… I’m not a refugee though. I came from Anvil just a few days prior.” She had the feeling he preferred short and curt answers, he looked so severe for an Altmer, and he was far older than her.
“I see. What are you called, girl?”
“Rhona Amor-” she caught herself, “my name is Rhona. And what of you, sir?” Her grip tightened on the wooden staff in her hand.
Mortalmo’s eyes narrowed then, and a smirk played across his lips. So she was hiding something. How adorable. In another time, that little slip would have had her dragged kicking and screaming into a dungeon. Now though, he couldn’t afford to care. “You may address me as Durantel.” The irony of the situation was not lost on him.
“Durantel then. A pleasure to meet you.” She gave a slight nod of her head, when a most peculiar thought ran across her mind. Would he even consider it?
“Can you teach me? How to fight like that?” Rhona asked, thinking of how useful it would be to become far more physically capable of fending off Cezare should be lay hands on her again. Her forearm still bore the angry colors he had left. And more importantly, from what she had seen of Durantel, he had had efficient training.
Now that was certainly interesting. Teaching the wretch before him might have been beneath his station... but even that wasn’t entirely true, was it? He was walking ground that he had never once before tread. To the Thalmor he would be a disgrace, to those beneath the Dominion’s boot he was a villain. His true identity was dead to the world, and now he assumed the alias of a common drifter. Confiding in someone for the first time in nearly a decade... and it was a thrice damned lizard.
What was he? What was she?
Surely Breton. Trace amounts of Mer blood already put the girl in higher esteem than the rest of Lorkhan’s spawn deserved.
“I am an enchantress… I could offer my services to you as payment.” She added softly.
He gazed at Rhona appraisingly. “I will teach you what I can, to the best of my abilities. I have no use for an enchanter at present, however.” He paused, a muscle in his neck spasming. His lips twisted into a grimace. “It is of no matter. You will find some other way to be useful.”
Rhona shifted uncomfortably, she wasn’t sure what he meant by finding other ways to be useful, but in the current situation she needed to know how to defend herself proper. Viras had taught her what he knew, but it was little in regard for actual defense.
“Very well. I… know a few destruction spells, and my staff can set things aflame. My staff is how I fight. I just… hit people on the head with it. But I want to know more. I need to know how… to hurt someone. How to intimidate them. To get them to leave me alone forever.” Her chest tightened at the words she spoke, not realizing that her knees were shaking.
The smirk found its way back onto Mortalmo’s face. If he didn’t know better, he would say that he’d already taken a shine to this wretch. At the very least, she was intriguing. A darkness crept into his voice that hadn’t previously been present. “It sounds as if you are not asking for typical combat lessons.”
Her brows rose at his suggestive tone, what was she trying to accomplish exactly? She wanted Cezare to leave her alone, for good. But did that mean she wanted him dead? Rhona couldn’t
bring herself to answer the question directly.
She lowered her gaze, staring at the tips of her bare feet, chewing thoughtfully on her bottom lip, “There is someone… I am afraid of. My… husband. I left him two years ago to find freedom and peace… and after all these years… he’s here. He’s here in this camp, and he found me. I won’t go back with him. No matter what it takes, Durantel. I won’t.” Her throat tightened, she shook her head before lifting her gaze again.
He felt a pang at her words, sharp and swift. A wife fleeing from the husband that she so greatly feared. What had this man done to her? His mind drifted to Faewynn, and a deep scowl came to twist across his visage. “It is reprehensible, his actions. He has mistreated you, this is apparent. And then... he came looking for you?” Something fiery wrapped itself around Mortalmo’s heart.
“Yes, I will help you Rhona. I will teach you what I know, and in turn you may teach him.” He fixed her with a dangerous stare. “Teach him to fear you far more than you ever feared him.”
A hopeful smile crossed her lips, “Truly, this has been a wondrous day. Azura smiles upon me.” She took a step towards Durantel, and bowed at the waist, it only seemed proper.
“Thank you, for your kindness.”
Azura? That certainly warranted further questioning at some point. Mortalmo remained impassive though, for the time being. “I once knew someone, someone dear to me, that was in a plight similar to your own. It grieves me to say that I was unable to help her. Auri-El as my witness, I won’t fail another soul that has been wounded in such a way.”
The words he spoke sickened him. The sincerity with which they were uttered nearly made him gag.
Her brows furrowed at his words, her heart went out to him, women that suffered at the hands of men made her heart weep with sadness. She remembered the tragedies Aurelia spoke of from her own husband. Rhona could feel the hard lump forming in her throat as she remembered how she wept in her arms. Rhona could do little at the time to comfort her, and so she let her cry until she could cry no more.
“It is… more common than I would wish to believe. I am sorry… that your heart has known such pain.” She shook her head, digging the end of her staff into the soil below. Rhona shifted her weight with unease, “Cezare and I… our parents arranged our marriage. My mother believed that our union would be prosperous, but alas, such was not what Mara intended.”
Mortalmo gestured to the overturned log that he had been using to catch his breath between fights. “Sit with me,” He said, acquiescing to his own request. “And tell me about Cezare, if you are willing. I would appreciate knowing what sort of man I have been tasked with helping you... deal with.”
As commanded, she took a seat next to Durantel, placing her staff beside her. She locked her fingers together, and considered his request. With a heavy sigh, she shook her head, “Where do I start?”
“From the beginning I suppose is best.” Rhona answered her own question, and nodded solemnly, “I was nineteen when we married, he was but twenty-three. I had had my heart torn to pieces by a lover from my youth, Sayyid was his name. He convinced me to run away with him, only one morning in a field near Chorrol, I woke up and found him gone. He had taken everything I owned. I was but sixteen then. It was a year later when my mother arranged the marriage. At the time, Cezare was away fighting in the Legion. She set a date, three months after his end of service. He was handsome, and I suppose some would consider him to be as such still.” Rhona began to subconsciously wring her hands, but continued speaking nonetheless.
“He never told me what happened in the war, what he did, or what he saw… but he started drinking. More than what I would consider normal. This carried on for a few years until one day, as I was balancing our ledger… I noticed some discrepancies… so I went to the bank, and asked them to show me their records. And Cezare…” She could feel hot tears on her cheeks, “he had spent all of his inheritance. He started gambling, we were in debt, and he had taken loans from the bank, none of which he paid back in full. And when I confronted him that evening…” She took a deep breath, that caused her entire body to shudder, “I shouldn’t have asked him. I knew better than to ask him anything when he was drunk. He was always so angry, and that night was no different. But he was so angry, Durantel.”
And so came the tears, “He threw a chair at me, and I fled up the stairs. I locked myself in our bedchamber but he broke down the door. I thought… I thought I would die that night.”
“Fear gripped my heart after that, I walked with muscles tensed. I felt that if I so much as did anything wrong, it would send him into a rage, and it often did. Gods forbid if I ever forgot to supply the house with alcohol, or have supper prepared for him. So I started to pocket my coin, I hid every piece of gold from him… I refused to keep living there with him. And so I left.” She used the backs of her hands to wipe away her tears, a strangled smile appearing.
“And yet here I am, blathering like a fool to you about my estranged husband, who I am utterly terrified of.” She turned to face him, “You must think me weak.”
For a long time Mortalmo was silent. He stared away from Rhona as she spoke, searching the sky above them for something that he knew was not there. When at last he came to look at the Breton, his face was aghast, and his eyes were wet. He blinked the moisture away, and waited a few more moments as his expression regained some semblance of composure. Why should he care for the petty squabbling of animals?
Why indeed.
When he spoke, his voice was steady, though quiet and hollow. “How vile. How absolutely wicked.” He inhaled and exhaled deeply. “You may be weak, girl. But you are not foolish, as far as I can tell. You fled his presence, which was clearly the only intelligent option afforded to you.” His words took on a harder edge then. “If you are weak now, then I will see to it that you become strong.” His eyes searched hers as he spoke, a mixture of determination and compassion evident in his stare. Something else lingered there too... was it regret? Perhaps guilt.
“Mara has brought me many curious people into my life as of late,” She reached out and patted his hand, “and surely, you are amongst them.” Mortalmo’s eyes darted to his hand as she touched him. He remained still, however.
Rhona drew her hand away, and shook her head, “I just want him to know that, no matter how hard he may try, that he must leave me be. That I am no longer his to claim.” Her hand moved to cover the dark splotchy bruise he had left, “Never will I return with him, and when I die, it will be into Arkay’s arms I go.”
“You will be free of him, this much I can guarantee you.” He frowned at her. “I do have a number of conditions to lay before you. Firstly, I suggest that you make arrangements to prepare whatever tent or bedroll you may have near my own small camp. I do not desire to scour the entire miserable shantytown for you should I have wisdom to impart or an important topic to discuss. This may also be good for your piece of mind, should Cezare discover your exact location. Secondly, if you are indeed intent on entering my tutelage, it is likely that you will come to meet some of my associates.” He paused, looking at Rhona very carefully.
“And this is of the utmost import. Nothing that we discuss in this glade will be known to them, or any other individual that you should come across. I need your word that you will swear our arrangement and anything else we might have discussed here to secrecy. Your own history, of course, you are free to disclose. Thirdly, I will help you with your difficulties with Cezare. In return, I will need to be able to rely on you for assistance should I wish it.”
Rhona consider his terms of agreement to training her, they seemed somewhat reasonable, though she did have one question, “If I am to relocate close to your campsite… what should I tell your associates about my sudden appearance, should the question arise?”
“Tell them that our goals happened to align. That I’ve... taken you under my wing, in a sense. A word of warning, I am not well liked among the brunt of them.”
She nodded dutifully, then this was it, “I agree to the terms and conditions then.”
“Excellent. While we remain here, we might as well begin your tutelage in earnest. As a sign of good faith between the two of us.”
Surprise filled her, Durantel would keep his promise, and so they would start now, it would seem. Her brows furrowed, from a bit of confusion, “What would you have me do?”
Mortalmo’s eyes lazily followed a hare as it bounded across the clearing.
“Let’s start with something small.”
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
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6 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Here's my thingy for Leif if he was a starving artist grunge rocker trying to make it in Seattle:
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
→
6 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
→
6 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
-Insert Snazzy Catch Phrase Title Here-
A Collab by @Spoopy Scary and @MacabreFox
Skingrad, Refugee Camp
Rhona wove in and out of the crowded footpaths, the grass underfoot trampled into the dirt, quickly turning to mud from that morning’s rain. More survivors from the attack on the Imperial City continued to arrive by the hour. There had to be well over a thousand people setting up camp outside of the walls. She passed by a tent searching for volunteers to lead a scouting mission, something called the Colovian Rangers. She moved past the tent, fighting and sleuthing through the shadows was not her expertise, so why put herself in danger? Tobias kept close at her heels, seemingly content with claiming her as his new master, or at least for the time being. An animal had its own will, and if it wished to leave, she would not hinder it. Each being deserved to be free.
When she turned along the path, she kept her eyes fixated on the faces of the people. Perhaps Holbert, Lysanna and her mother had had their backs turned to her when she made her rounds the first three times. Yet she didn’t see a familiar face amongst the weary and tired, she had spent the entire morning and afternoon searching. However, as she passed a group of men gathered, she overheard concerning conversation and stopped to listen. They paid no heed to her, as they were deeply enveloped in their emotions.
“I’m tellin’ ya, I was just here two weeks ago for business, there’s no reason why the Count would close the gates of Skingrad, save for him being a greedy sonuvabitch. We need food, and shelter. I don’t give a bloody hoot if these folks believe that he works for their interest, it’s not what’s best for us.” There were welcoming cheers among the men, Rhona figured that they had consumed quite a bit of alcohol to be so rowdy during midday.
‘Mara give us peace.’ Rhona thought with a shake of her head. Just as she stepped away, an iron-grip crushed her forearm, and spun her around. Her heart plummeted, and the blood in her hands drained away. She couldn’t breathe. Towering over her like a phantom of years passed, stood Cezare, dressed in black. He had grown a beard, neatly kept, and his hair still had its same lustrous brown waves. But his cheeks were gaunt, the skin stretched tight over his face. His blue eyes were as cold as ice, as he began to pull her away, holding her tight against him, his pace quickened so as to avoid any prying eyes from stopping them.
“After all these years,” He whispered in her ear, “and my wife finally shows her face.” At his words, a fire flooded her veins. NO. This is why she left. Why was she letting him lead her? She dug her bare feet into the mud, trying to free herself.
“Let go.” She countered, trying to make her tone just as cold.
“Oh no, I won’t be doing any such thing. After all, we’re still married. You are mine.” He yanked hard on her arm, trying to get her to walk straight.
“I said let go!” She stuck her foot out in between his ankles, causing him to trip. He broke his grip, and she swung her staff up at his head. The wooden stave connected with his skull, a loud crack resounded. Rhona bolted, slipping once in the mud from the panic. She could hear Cezare behind her, the anger in his voice would have paralyzed her, but her instincts told her to run. Run fast, run far, and don’t look back.
“Rhona Amoretto!” He bellowed, his voice striking her core. She ran blind into the throng of people, Tobias beside her, she needed somewhere safe to hide. Somewhere Cezare wouldn’t find her.
While these events were unfolding, the affairs of a certain bard were being put back in order. Calen had urged the child away for the falling sun forecasted the rising of the moons and dusk would soon be upon them. Though truthfully, it was more for the sake of Danish’s nerves and his own physical well-being. A foot accidentally touching the pony’s haunches was enough to spur it into action, but the reactionary tugging on his halter by an inexperienced rider gave the pony mixed signals and caused him to rear back. Though Calen managed to wrestle the rope away from the boy atop of his beast of burden -- whether that meant the beast carried his own burden or the beast was a burden in and of himself, that was still up for debate -- the agitated pony whipped around, putting Calen behind his hindquarters. Danish bucked, kicking Calen square in the chest with both hooves and throwing the boy off of hisbare back in one fell swoop. Though they had the fortune of landing in a soft patch of grass that Danish had not yet the opportunity to ravage, no such fortune was able to prevent the wind from being knocked from the young man’s lungs.
The evening had otherwise been pretty fruitful, the bard figured, even as he tried to rub the aching soreness out of his chest and looked down at the spooky pony with some measure of resentment. To think that damn animal nearly went the whole day without incident! He sighed in resignation as he finally led Danish to the stables outside Skingrad, making sure to (this time, securely) tie the rope to his halter to one of the posts next to the stall where he’d be kept and closed the gate behind him with a loud, metallic screech.
‘Ugh, they need to oil these gates.’ He thought to himself.
As a chill wind swept through clearing, Calen looked to the sky. The coming night must be a chill one. Danish was accustomed to the winters of Skyrim, but perhaps it would be best if he prepared for whatever came in these strange times. Walking just a few paces from Danish’s stall, he climbed into the back of his wagon and procured a key from one of his pockets to unlock the trunk and withdrew a large woolen blanket. Slamming the trunk back shut, he marched back to the stall and draped it over the gate in front of his pony -- and that was when he heard the wrathful cry of one of them men back at one of the refugee camps.
“Rhona Amoretto!”
Her eyes scanned for any place to hide, someplace where he wouldn’t find her. It was then that she reached the far end of the camp, when the sight of a stable caught her attention. She made a beeline straight for the edifice, trepidation consuming her. She slowed her pace enough to keep her bearings, that’s when she spotted a blond man standing outside of a stall door. She ran to him, meeting him with a mousy face and a look of terror.
“Help me please,” Rhona begged, “I need to hide!”
Calen met her with confusion and alarm. At first he was disarmed by the beauty of her face, but then he realized that there was a look terror marring her countenance, and moments ago he heard the wrathful yelling -- and then it clicked. He didn’t know the full story, who was right or who was wrong, just that there was a young woman who needed his help. He looked to the gate of Danish’s stall -- no, no, that wouldn’t do. He looked the woman and her clothing up and down, and his face lit up as an idea came to him.
“Just bear with me,” he said to her in hurried, hushed tones. He grabbed her dingy grey cloak and quickly draped it around her shoulders, folding one end and looping it back underneath itself. He craned his neck around to see if anyone was coming -- no one yet -- and pulled off his brown outer shirt over his head, revealing the white undershirt beneath, and haphazardly coiled it around her head in a fashion that resembled what he knew of the alik’r and pulled the folded part of her cloak up, opening it up to form another hood which he pulled over once more.
She wasn’t sure what he was doing, but she put her trust in him, if he was willing to help this much, she might as well give him the chance.
Time was quickly running out, Calen felt, but for the last second finishing touches, he reached down and dug his fingers into the dark, rich soil and grab two fistfulls of dirt and rubbed it into the skin on her face -- ‘Stendarr’s mercy, she’s going to hate me’ -- and onto her hands before throwing the rest of the dirt down and dusting off whatever landed onto her clothes. The sound of a goat bleating caught his attention, and he looked down to see just that: a goat. He gave the animal an incredulous look, as the damn thing would be a dead give away. He quickly grabbed the blanket he brought for Danish, whipped it open, and threw it on top of the goat prompting the creature’s muffled bleat.
“Hey, Calen!” By the Gods, he found her. Rhona squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m looking for my wife, I saw her run off this way.”
“I’m sorry ma’am,” Calen said, initially talking over the angry Imperial, “I’m afraid I don’t know how to get to Sentinal from -- oh!” Calen feigned a look of surprise to Cezare, but then a real sense of trepidation came over as he was struck with a realization. “Hey, uh... your wife?” Rhona remained still, her head swimming with panic. Would he oust her?
His eyes flicked down to Rhona, but back to Cezare. “Didn’t you tell me your wife left you a couple years ago?”
“Yeah well that cunt finally showed her face. She’s in this goddamn camp somewhere. She’s short. Pretty. Brown hair. I swear to the Gods, Calen. If I get my hands on her again, she’ll realize what a fucking mistake she made leaving me in the first place. You just tell me if you see her.”
“Yeah, who would want to leave you…” Calen muttered under his breath. Then he cleared his throat and spoke loud and clearly, “I don’t know, my friend, I was just putting good ol’ Danish away. I thought I heard one of the kids running past, but if she’s short like you say she is… maybe? I guess? She might be circling the city walls.”
“Yeah? I’ll take a look, she can’t have run far.” Cezare huffed, and strode off. No more questions. Not even a consideration about the woman before Calen. Nothing. Rhona breathed a sigh of relief, she had stood so rigid, that when her shoulders drooped, she began to shake like the last leaf clinging to a branch before the arrival of winter. Tobias, from underneath the blanket Calen threw over him, made a muffled bleat once more and headbutted the side of Calen’s knee, prompting a restrained yelp of pain as he hunched over and puffed out his cheeks to keep himself from crying out too loud.
“Is he gone?” She asked, her voice quiet, as if speaking too loudly would bring Cezare right back.
“Uh… yeah, actually.” Calen responded, aiming another resentful glance at the second animal to have wronged him today. He slowly let go of the tension he was also holding in, but it steadily dissolved into nervous laughter as the whole dramatic irony of it all unfurled before him until he he was bent over and holding onto his knees and the laughter became more genuine.
“Are you kidding me! That actually worked!” He cried out. Then he looked to Rhona with a look of awe. “And you! You’re here with the rest of the refugees! Did you really live in the same city under his nose for two whole years?”
She shook her head, not finding the humor in his words, she unraveled his handiwork and passed his shirt back to him, “No. I avoided the city like the plague.” When he had reclaimed his shirt, Rhona wrapped her arms tight around herself, her way of controlling the trembling.
“I left for a reason, and in my eyes, we’re not married. Not under the eyes of Mara, mother bless me.” She lifted her head to look him in the eye, offering him a small smile.
“Thank you, for your kindness, and bravery.”
“Oh, there was nothing brave about it!” Calen said chipperly, brushing off her compliment as he slung the shirt over his shoulder. Bravery! That was a new one… but there remained a question which itched the back of his mind. “But uh… if you’re not from the Imperial City, then what are you doing here? Bad timing?”
“Mm. You say that now. But you catch him on his bad side, and you’ll see what I mean. But no. I was in Rihad for the winter, and I decided to come see Cyrodiil again. I just came from Anvil when this all happened.” She gestured at the sea of tents stretching in an endless wave of white.
“And you? Are you among the afflicted?”
“Ah… not really.” Calen replied somberly. “I happened to pass by in front of the city as it was under siege. Just in time to help the citizens evacuate.”
“So it’s true? What the people have said? There were ships in the air?” She soaked in the information, Tobias bumping his head against her. She reached down to pat him on the head.
“Yeah. They were there. I couldn’t believe my eyes.” Calen explained, but then he hesitated for a second as if he had remembered something, then his eyes looked apologetic. “Oh, uh, hey -- um, sorry about… you know, the dirt. I just, uh, tried to sell the whole Redguard thing and, well…”
“I am not upset,” she smiled readily, reaching up to touch her face, “It is a blessing to receive the touch of Kynareth.”
“How… do you know Cezare?” Her brows furrowed, realizing that Cezare had called to him by his name, “Calen yes?”
“Yep, that’s it.” He confirmed. “Trust me, we’re not old drinking buddies or anything, he just happened to be one of the evacuees I helped; and you must be Rhona? He mentioned your name once or twice on the trip to get here.”
She nodded solemnly, “Yes, I am. I’m… not surprised he did. Though for his sake, I wish he would forget me entirely.” With one hand she began to wipe away the excess dirt tickling her nose.
“How does that look?”
“Well, I say you’d look beautiful even covered head to toe in skeever dung, but since that doesn’t help you now… I heard from some of the others that there were some ponds and lakes just a short jog north if you’d like to wash off. It would also take you away from the city for a bit”
She contemplated the offer and gave a shrug, “I don’t see why not.”
As promised, it was indeed a short jog to the ponds just to the north. Rhona felt right at home in her element, away from people, in tune with nature. She set herself down on the water’s edge, washing the mud off her feet, and then focused on her face, using the hem of her cloak as a towel. She hummed quietly to herself, and splashed cool water on her neck before wiping her hands off on the front of her dress.
“You’re not from here, are you?” Rhona asked, spreading her cloak out and took a seat. Tobias had set to munching on cattails near the water. She rummaged through her rucksack and procured her pipe, packing it full of her dried herbs, and lit it afire with her fingers tips. Long tendrils of smoke curled above her as she returned the pouch to her sack, and reached for the lavender oil, rubbing some on her neck.
Calen sat in the cool grass beside the cloak, having long redonned his shirt since he had it returned. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of her use of magic. A mage then? But the question got him thinking for a moment, which lead him to an amused smile on his face. He asked in turn, “What gave it away? Was it when I told you north and started walking south?”
She smiled, pulling the pipe away from her mouth, “Something like that. And the fact that most Imperials would demand payment for any help. And you… you just helped me without asking anything in return.”
“It was the accent.” Calen added in with a humored quip. “You don’t get this smooth voice like honey mead anywhere this far south, eh?”
It was nice, to have someone to talk to, even if she preferred the company of trees and insects. His cheerful attitude lifted her weary spirits.
“If you want to call it that,” She chuckled, “My father was from Skyrim. He talked like you. From what I can remember that is.”
Calen laid his back against the ground, hands behind his head and closed his eyes as he let the last few hours of the sun’s warmth soak into his skin and clothes and a sense of peace washed over him. Taking in a deep breath, he sighed and idley said, “My father always told me to do right by others and they’ll do right by me. When you came to me, I had to make a decision then, do what I thought was right. I think I did right. My old man is old-fashioned, but he was right about a lot of things. Life’s too short to be angry and bitter. That stuff’s exhausting. I don’t know how your poor bastard of a ‘husband’ does it.”
She shifted uncomfortably at his words, taking another puff on her pipe, and then touched her arm where Cezare grabbed her. It burned like fire and ice. Rhona didn’t want to look at it, but she knew it had bruised. A pain she thought she had left far behind years ago.
“A lot of drinking. Squandering away your inheritance and running into debt will do the trick.” Carefully, she rolled up her right sleeve, and peered down at her forearm. A colorful display, one Nocturnal would approve of, bathed the muscles in an array of blues, purples and black. She huffed. It would fade. “Your father sounds like a sensible man, at least.” Rhona drew the pipe away from her lips, offering it out to Calen.
“Would you like some?”
Calen cracked open one of his eyes, and those she was aiming the pipe at his face, it was but a blur to him as his eyes focused on the colorful bruising on the arm behind it. The smile on his face turned into a frown. He sat back up and absentmindedly accepted Rhona’s offer, placing the end of the pipe between his teeth, an uncharacteristic air of seriousness came over him now that his attention was on her and her arm.
“Did Cezare do that to you?” He asked.
“Don’t inhale the smoke into your lungs--” Rhona’s warning came too late as Calen abruptly start coughing and spitting, causing the pipe to fall out of his mouth. The effects of whatever it was that was in her pipe had immediately gone to his head and made him dizzy, and the spasms in his chest that caused his coughing suddenly gone tight, stopping his coughing fit and causing him to heave for air, but little of it actually entered his lungs.
“Gods damn it, Calen, you idiot!” Calen hoarsely croaked to himself, as his eyes went wide and sweat began to bead on his forehead. How? How could he forget? How could he forget the one thing he was supposed to be mindful of at all times? ‘You’re an asthmatic, you milk-drinking idiot!’ He looked down at his hands as they began to tremble, and he clenched his eyes shut as he tried his damndest to focus on them. His heart was beating against his chest and his lungs felt like they were in agony. Slowly, but surely, a familiar weak yellowish-white glow radiated from his hands he hurriedly cupped them around his face. Suddenly, a rush of air abruptly filled his lungs as Calen gasped for air, and a faint yellow glow could be seen emanating from underneath his skin, trailing down his neck.
Rhona’s eyes widened in shock at his unexpected coughing fit, one that led him to cast some type of healing spell on himself. She reclaimed her pipe, shaking her head as she did so.
“I am sorry. I should have asked.” She watched him for a moment before asking, “Are you better?”
“Y-yeah..! I’m fine!” Calen said hoarsely between deep, heavy breaths, causing his voice to crack a bit. ”And… y-you! You’re fine too!”
The young man took in a couple of long, deep breaths before deciding to talk again. “You’re fine, really! That was my fault! You offered... I took it. I guess I just… wasn’t thinking! Distracted. Pheeww… hah… anyway…”
“Here. Have some water.” She untethered her water skin from her rucksack and handed it out to him, a sympathetic smile on her lips. Calen eagerly took it and gave her an appreciative nod, before taking a couple of sips. Reclaiming another breath, he looked back at Rhona, pointing the waterskin at her arm. “As I was saying… did Cezare do that?”
She had hoped he would have forgotten about that in his coughing fit, but he seemed relentless on letting the matter lie. Rhona gazed at him, a peculiar expression on her face, one mixed with pain and remembrance.
“Yes… it’s… he did.” She moved her left hand over her right forearm, shifting her gaze away to stare fixedly on the water’s surface.
“Big mammoth-nosed son of…” Calen sighed. He crossed his arms. “Well I guess I don’t have to explain myself anymore thanks to my skeever brain, but I can try helping with it if you’d like me to. I mean, I’m not actually super good at it, but I can give it a shot. It’s just a bruise.”
She gave him a half hearted smile, “I’m not very good at healing either. But go ahead. Maybe I could enchant something of yours as a thank you?” Rhona extended her arm out to him.
“Maybe you can enchant this daft old noggin’ of mine to be a touch more mindful?” Calen joked as he leaned his with an ear to ear smile. He set his hands an inch over Rhona’s arm, and it took a few moments of visible effort on his part to call upon the same magick he had used on himself a minute ago. When the slight light began to appear around his hands, the effects didn’t seem as steady as it did before, the light flickering in and out before it fizzled completely and leaving Calen out of breath once more.
“Bah, Stendarr’s eye!” Calen swore. “I guess I’m dry…”
“You shouldn’t push yourself so hard.” Rhona said reassuringly, patting his hand before staring hard at him, as if she had just realized something.
“What even brings a Nord like you all the way down here? You’re not a bard on an adventure seeking new tales to sing, are you?” Part of her joked, but she did wonder why he had come all the way down to Cyrodiil.
For a moment, Calen stared at her like she had sprouted another head on her shoulders before he hesitantly answered, “Well… that was the idea.”
Her eyes widened, before she grinned, shaking her head, “An entertaining life I’m sure. One that must be filled with arduous affairs of the heart, countless bottles drank under starry skies… Mara, bless me with such wonder.”
Though Calen was initially caught off guard by her terribly uncanny insight, her musing had brought back some memories of his travels across Skyrim. Indeed, there had been many nights where he felt blessed, and many an affair that was led by his heart -- whether or not that was the message she intended to convey -- and her words had also come to remind him of the two bottles of Solitude’s famous spiced wine locked up in the chest on his wagon. There was nary a better way of ending the night that he could think of then getting drunk off some good wine with the company of a beautiful lady!
“Indeed it is, Rhona, indeed it is!” Calen agreed in a sing-songy voice. “Might you be looking to be entertained?”
Her eyebrows rose at the invitation, she hadn’t expected one from him, half expecting the pleasantries to end between them. But he had brought such good cheer to her, that part of her didn’t wish to have it end. And more importantly, she didn’t want to be alone in case Cezare found her.
“My heart could use the cheer after such a fright.” She nodded her head in agreement.
And so, the two of them, with Tobias in tow, set off back towards the camp, Calen keeping her entertained with animated conversation. Yet her thoughts wandered as she listened with half a mind, Rhona couldn’t chase the feeling of fear from her heart, what if they ran into Cezare? What if he came back to look for Calen and found her with him? If anything, she had her staff in hand, she could certainly strike him again, or at least set his britches on fire. Yet while she worried about this, Calen’s soothing nature put her at ease. He had a carefree attitude, and it made her think of Aurelia, and her friends. She absent-mindedly placed her hand over heart, as if it caused her physical pain. She swallowed a hard lump in her throat, shaking away the thought. At least Aurelia would be safe in Valenwood.
Not long after, they arrived at the stables, however, Calen guided her to a carriage. And with her help, they erected a tent over it with some canvas and wooden poles which were procured from a chest that was kept and bolted down just behind the driver’s seat. Her hands moved with haste and it reminded Calen to quicken his own pace as they fitted the poles into their respective slots and finally draped the canvas over the top, sheltering the two from the outside world.
As Calen stood, partially hunched over due to being unable to stand at his full height underneath the tent, he fastened some of the loose strings stitched into the fabric around the poles, and idley spoke to Rhona in a passive voice. He said, “I hope it’s not too inappropriate of me to offer a frightful widow a place to sleep tonight. I imagine it’s safer from prying eyes than any other place I can think of.”
“A frightful widow…” she whispered under her breath. It was strange to hear, but it resonated with her. She smiled to herself, a tender one as she peeked inside, watching him make the finishing touches.
Rhona cleared her throat, “I think… Mara has brought you to me for a reason.”
“Mara?” Calen mused with an entertained smile on his face, gesturing to Rhona to come inside and make herself comfortable. “Me, an agent of the Mother-Goddess? Rhona, you honor me! What makes you think that?”
She laughed as she took a seat beside him, resting her elbows atop her knees, “Well… I meant it more as… Mara works in mysterious ways when it comes to my… friends and lovers I’ve come across through the years.”
“She… has been a complicated mistress to me.” Rhona shrugged nonchalantly.
“Well then, how about...” Calen began cheerfully as he dived back into the chest of his belongings, shifting some items to the side as he sifted through and randomly handing off a lute and drum to Rhona as he continued his search, “in celebration of our friends and lovers… and all of the friends and lovers to come…”
Finally, he seemed to have found what he was looking for, and withdrew two green glass wine bottles adorned with straw that was weaved around the base and a pillow. It was the last of his spiced wine from Solitude -- one was full while the other, from what little light was inside, was only half of its contents left. He pushed the full bottle into Rhona’s hands and took back his lute as he sat back against the bench on his side of the wagon while propping his feet atop of the other.
“We share a health to the company!” Calen proposed, idley strumming once over his lute. “For it’s as Dibella says --” the bard thumbed the amulet around his neck, “Open your heart to the noble secrets of art and love. Treasure the gifts of friendship and seek joy and inspiration in the mysteries of love!”
She widened her eyes at the mention of Dibella, but popped the cork on the bottle of spiced wine, she took a tentative sniff, never had she tasted wine from Solitude, but she brought the lip of the bottle to her mouth, and took a hearty sip. It was sweet, spicy mostly, but sweet nonetheless. Not overbearingly so, but just enough to settle well with her.
She took a smaller sip this time, and passed the bottle back to Calen, her eyes landing on the amulet around his neck, “Are you a follower of Dibella then?” Rhona asked, nodding at the trinket bearing her distinctive mark.
“Nah, I just like wearing her jewelry.” He joked with a cheeky smile. “I kid -- yes, absolutely! The Lady teaches us that love can be as fleeting as it is immortal, and that's okay -- and love, in all of its various forms, is equally significant whether its between two friends sharing a drink…”
Calen gestured around them.
“...or two lovers intertwined.”
Calen threw back the bottle for a long sip, then continued, “Every friend and every partner I've ever had -- I love them still to this day. I hold them close to my heart even if they don't feel the same.”
She listened in silence, and when he had finished speaking, Rhona let the brevity of his words sink in. She covered her mouth with one hand, shaking her head slowly, and with both hands moved them over her face as if to crush the inner turmoil.
“Gods… I envy you. I…” her throat tightened, feeling hot tears wetting her cheeks, voice cracking as she spoke, “Everyone I have ever loved….” She gave a soft laugh, her heart aching as she recalled the vivid memories of waking up that morning in a field near Chorrol, expecting to find Sayyid alongside her, but he had disappeared, with her belongings, and Aurelia… left without a goodbye, and it made Rhona feel cowardly for not having the courage to go with her to Valenwood. And Cezare… well she never really loved him.
“They leave me with a broken heart.” She tried to smile, rubbing the back of her hand against her forehead. Rhona blew out air between her lips, and brought her hands away from her face, her hand extended for the bottle. She could use another sip of spiced wine to quell the wave of emotions rising up.
Calen gave her a sympathetic smile to match the sullen air of melancholy which has enveloped Rhona. The countless heartbreaks were plain to see in her hazel eyes, and such was a sight he has seen too often in his paltry twenty-three years, and his own heart ached for her as it did for a dozen other friends and companions he has met on his journeys. He gingerly handed the bottle of spiced wine back to Rhona -- he suspected she was going to need a lot more of it before the night was over -- and reached into his trunk one last time and brought out an old, battered journal.
"I take that energy and turn it towards something productive," he said. Calen moved from his spot and crawled over next to Rhona's side, placing the journal in his lap. As he began thumbing through the pages, revealing page after page of entries, hand-drawn portraits of old friends and lovers, poems, he eventually stopped at a page depicting in meticulous detail a beautiful robed woman which he had captioned, "Illia". He continued, "When I think about past loves, I don't think about what I lost. I think about what I gained. The love I felt in those moments were real, and those moments are valuable to me. So the memories don't hurt me that much. More than anything, they feel... fulfilling."
She cradled the bottle of wine in her arms, holding it against her chest as if it were a newborn babe, she watched as he flipped through the pages. He had a knack for drawing people that much was true. When he came to the page with the woman depicting Illia, she smiled, he had said her name with such tenderness it reminded of her Sayyid, “She’s beautiful. You were lucky to have known her.”
His eyes broke away from the page and faced Rhona, a brief moment filled with a sense of longing sobering Calen from his usual, whimsical disposition. He cooed, "That's why they're still so dear to me."
Rhona took a long draught from the bottle, shivering involuntarily as the liquid raced through her body. When she looked up, she found his eyes upon her, and perhaps it was the wine starting to get to her, or perhaps it was the sentiment thick in the air, but she reached up with one hand, and cupped his cheek. His words had struck a deep resonating chord with her, how much grief did she still carry in her heart? And more importantly, why was it so hard to let go for her? She had tried to forget with Aurelia, she had kept her mind focused on other tasks at hand. She pulled her hand away, and took another drink, then slipped the bottle between them. She then shifted her weight, resting her head against his shoulder, and sighed. She could smell his scent, of hay and horses, of earth and sweat, it comforted her.
“I can’t believe it worked. He didn’t even question who you were talking to. And Tobias,” she started laughing, “you just threw a blanket over him.”
Calen joined Rhona in laughter, throwing his head back as if that was the funniest thing he’s ever heard and set his journal back in his lap. He cried out, “I know, right?! And the whole, oh I’m sorry ma’am, I don’t know the way to Sentinal -- I didn’t even know what I was going to say at first, that was completely unrehearsed!”
After a drink of wine from the bottle they shared, Calen reached for his lute once again with his free hand. Though since Rhona was resting on his other shoulder, his arm on that side reached around her waist and held the neck of his musical instrument. She had expected him to shift away from her to accommodate the lute, but he didn’t. It felt good, to be close someone again. A quick swipe over each of the strings to make sure they were tuned properly was all he needed. “So,” he began, “we’re drinking, we’re merry; what do you say about hearing a merry drinking song about drinking and being merry?”
“Well I’m not going to say no, look you already have your lute. Play on.” She grinned, her cheeks flushing red.
The young bard played on, beginning with a quaint if uncomplicated and slow tune. The rhythm was simple and easy to follow as many classic and memorable drinking songs are, but it was peaceful almost like a lullaby would be. When the melody came to a pause, it picked right back up with Calen's voice in tow.
"Kind friends and companions,
come join me in rhyme!
Come lift up your voices,
in chorus with mine!
Come lift up your voices,
and share a health, my friend!
For we may or might never
meet here again!
So here's a health to the company,
and one to my lass!
Let us drink and be merry,
all out of one glass.
Let us drink and be merry,
all grief to refrain.
For we may or might never,
meet here again!
My footsteps may falter,
my wit, it might fail.
My course may be challenged
by the worst northern gale!
We'er fortune prove to be friend or me foe,
you'll always be with me wherever I go."
When the song returned to its chorus for the last time, Calen ceased the strumming of his lute and replaced it with intermittently tapping against the wood of his lute, allowing his voice to carry the rest of the song out to its very end.
"So here's a health to the company,
and one to my lass!
Let us drink and be merry,
all out of one glass.
Let us drink and be merry,
all grief to refrain.
For we may or might never…
meet here again!"[/i]
Rhona could feel his words and the melody vibrating through his body and into hers with each strum of the lute. She closed her eyes as he sang, and when Calen had stopped, she lifted the bottle to her lips, took one sip, and looked at him. She didn’t know why she did what she did next, but she leaned over, and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“Thank you. For everything today.” Rhona said, pulling away.
“Don’t thank me yet.”
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
→
6 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Here's Sevine if she lived in our world.
Through the Shadows
A Collab by @POOHEAD189 and I
Midnight, 5th of Second Seed Inside Skingrad
Severus could have passed as an Altmer were it not for his light grey skin, his features were severe and stern in the glow of the magelight. He swept his free hand over Rhea, Alim, and himself before nodding, satisfied. Were it not for the orb in his hand, Severus’ lithe figure would have blended into the shadows.
“Your footsteps are muffled, keep your voices down. The last thing I need is us being found out and thrown in the dungeons.” He hissed, voice low and harsh. Rhea shifted with uncertainty, glancing at Alim. Her own stomach worked itself in knots, Alim had put his life in her hands, and she wouldn’t forgive herself if anything happened to him.
“What kind of supplies can you get us?” Rhea asked, following behind Severus as he turned to lead them on again.
“What do you need?”
“Food. Flour and meat mainly. Medicine. There are sick people in the camps-”
“So we are clear, I will not help you carry anything. You will have to carry what you can manage.” Severus cut her off, he still had yet to tell her what the price of sneaking in would cost.
“Fair enough.”
The time to reach the end of the tunnel only took half an hour before they came to a stop at an iron gate. Severus extinguished the magelight, and waited several tense minutes, their eyes adjusting to the darkness. Just when she thought of asking him what he was waiting for, Severus procured a key, slipped his arm through the iron bars, and inserted the key into the lock. With great care, he turned the key, a soft clicking from the inner mechanism, and then the lock popped open. Severus claimed the lock before it clattered to the ground, then pulled the gate open, a squeaky grating noise indicated that the tunnel, had indeed, not been used for quite some time. Severus turned to look at Rhea and Alim in the darkness, eyeing the two of them before settling on Alim.
“I presume… that you are the one with a deft skill set?”
The Redguard mutt nodded, a dagger twirling within his dexterous fingers before finding its way back into his sheath as if by the wind. Though despite the small boast, he had to admit he admired Rhea’s skills himself. “That’s why I’m here.” He said, and the spellsword looked to Rhea to get an indication that he should move forward. Back in Highrock, hell, back in Hammerfell, women were often seen as dainty and subordinate. Many of them actually preferred it from what he’d seen, wanting to have themselves being waited on hand and foot or not wanting the responsibility on their shoulders. But it was actually nice to see a woman leader, Alim thought. He respected everyone with the will and skill to operate a team like theirs.
Once she gave him the go ahead, and he crept forward with silent footfalls, his sword out just in case there was a large rat or a weevil looking to take a bite out of his leg or hand. He had cast the enchantment of the storm upon it, to aid in its effectiveness and to give off a very faint glow they could be guided by. So far, the tunnel seemed empty. Bare rock mingled with old ruins, and more than once the spellsword had to step over rocks jutting out of the ground.
But after a short while, they made it to the very end of the tunnel, and a basement doorway above them that Severus had designated to be the entryway. Alim turned to them and placed a finger to his lips, before opening the door slowly, dust falling in billowing waves as he lifted the block of wood to its zenith, before catching it so it wouldn’t fall and hit the ground with a clack. Once he hopped up, he held out a hand to help Rhea up, whereas Severus simply looked at his hand with disdain and clambered up his own way. Rhea took his hand and entered the basement, Severus just feet away from her.
“No one has set foot in this house in twenty years,” he whispered, “The last occupant was a Thalmor supporter. The people here didn’t take to kindly to his indignant ways, and the Count locked him away in the dungeons below the castle. It has fallen into much disrepair since then. The guards must not have examined the house too closely or else this tunnel would have been sealed off.” With a ball of candlelight in his hand, he surveyed the basement, a simple layout where a stone staircase led into the inside.
They made it through the house without any hindrances, dust covered the floorboards, while thick cobwebs hung in the entryways like ethereal curtains. Severus brushed them away without a care, and made his way to the front door.
“Unfortunately, the key I have does not work on the doors of this house, just the gate.” Severus turned to Alim again, the Redguard proved useful in these situations.
Alim took his cue, and reached within his pocket to fetch a lockpick, one of the many useful items he had procured from the Imperial City as it fell into ruin. He lamented such a beautiful city being ransacked, and its citizens butchered. But what rogue would he be if he didn’t capitalize on it just a bit? With moderation, of course.
Alim undid the latch after a few moments of careful maneuvering with the pick, and a small ‘click’ announced his success. He then opened the door slowly, poking his head out slightly to see if the coast was clear.
They followed Alim out onto the streets of Skingrad, Severus guiding them into the shadows as he explained, “By Count Hassildor’s orders, a registry of citizens have been compiled to ensure that no one has gone missing or rather, anyone has slipped inside. They’ve drawn up identification papers with the Count’s seal. We could all be jailed, or worse, if we are caught.”
“Then what of you? Are you a citizen?” Rhea asked, wondering how severe the situation could become were they caught.
“Of course I am.” Severus snapped, as if insulted by her question. “The warehouse I’m taking you to is heavily guarded, but there is an old entrance that they’ve overlooked. Redguard, we’re going to need your skills again. This entrance might not be heavily used, but it is still under heavy lock and key.”
As they slipped through the shadows, Rhea trailing close behind Severus, he suddenly held out his arm, forcing her to a stop as he pushed her down. He dropped behind a crate, and waved Alim down. The sound of footsteps carried through the empty streets as torchfire illuminated the darkness. Steel helms glinted under the orange light as two guards rounded the corner patrolling the streets.
“...it’s hard to say. Do you think it really is the Dwemer like the refugees say?”
“I dunno… they spoke of floating ships in the sky, maybe the water was tainted with skooma?”
“You idiot, then everyone would have had a different hallucination. Don’t you know how skooma works?” The two guards passed without so much as a glance at the shadows. The three of them waited several tense minutes before Severus gestured for them to rise.
“There is an enforced curfew here as well. Everyone must be in their homes at sunset. If not you can face a tax, and in these times, a tax of any sort is the last thing you’d want.” Severus explained.
“It would seem that the Count is profiting from the situation.” Rhea commented.
“The people don’t see it as so, most still believe that he operates within their interest.”
Alim smiled to himself, slightly amused that despite the different cultures of the world, many things still seemed to stay the same wherever he went. Even his father would sometimes take advantage of the common man, though Alim had seen he was a bit more lenient on his leadership and wealth than most nobles.
They passed through the streets without a sound, the trio keeping their ears peeled for any sign that could threaten their livelihood, if they were caught now, all would be lost. Before long, a squat gray building came into view. Rhea picked up on the distinct noise of chatter coming from the opposite end of the building, most likely the entrance to the warehouse. Severus guided them into a darkened alley where a tower of wooden crates and barrels barricaded a weathered wooden door.
Severus turned to Alim, his crimson eyes seemingly black in the shadows, foreign and alien, “Pick the lock if you can, but wait for me to return. Do not enter until I return.” He said, his words frigid with a degree of severity. With that, he disappeared around the corner, leaving Rhea and Alim alone in the dark. She sighed, and began to pick her way around the crates until she reached the door.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
Alim still beside her after vaulting over a crate or two, he grabbed his unbroken lockpick once more. He gave her a sympathetic look, nodding. “Stealing is an acquired taste,” he said quietly. “At least for most. I started very young, and sometimes it even leaves a sour taste in my mouth...depending.”
He began to pick the lock as he continued, feeling the small pins within the mechanism giving way. “I try to put my talents another way. Stealing from a tomb is far more lucrative and less harmful to the conscience than stealing from a middle class merchant.” The lock suddenly clicked, indicating the door was now open. “Though don’t fret over this. We’re in need of supplies. It goes to a good cause.”
“A good cause…” she mumbled under her breath. Just then, the sound of light padded footsteps approached, Severus had returned. He climbed down beside Rhea and nodded.
“The coast is clear. There are just two guards watching the front, and one inside asleep on duty.” He settled in beside Alim, and pushed opened the door with a soft hand. Nocturnal seemed to be guiding them on this night.
“Take only what you can carry.” Severus slipped inside, not wishing to open the door more than necessary.
They entered the back of the warehouse as Severus had said, this half was darkly lit, there were crates, barrels and sacks of food. Fearing that a noise would give them away, Rhea took to looking inside the sacks, opening them with shaking hands. She settled on taking what flour she could, filling a sackcloth she had brought with her, her hands covered in the white substance.
The sound of a guard snoring echoed softly throughout the warehouse, and by the sound alone, he was in deep sleep, and so long as they didn’t break anything, they could get away with pilfering the supplies they needed. When she had filled the sack, Rhea crept to another crate, checking each one as she went, lifting the lids, and taking a handful of fruits and vegetables, stuffing them in her rucksack.
“I can carry quite a bit.” Alim quipped, grabbing a dozen apples and slipping them into his rucksack, biting into an extra one. With it stuck to his teeth, he grabbed about seven potatoes, and four pounds of dried meat. However, when he saw the ale he nearly unloaded some of it. “I can make it fit…” he said to himself, and grabbed three bottles of fine ale. “That is what she said.” He declared aloud, and shoved two bottles into his rucksack, with one under his arm.
He made his way around the crates silently and expertly, almost comically stepping over near impossible obstacles with his arms and sack full, showing rather impressive upper and lower body strength traversing through the room. Once grabbed a few more items, he found Rhea again, giving her a wink. “I think we are good.”
Her eyes widened at the sight of Alim stacked full with supplies and then she grinned, she just pointed over her shoulder at the exit, and lead him back to the doorway. When they emerged on the other side, and Severus had shut the door behind them, Rhea turned to him, brows furrowed.
“We still need medicine, and there wasn’t any in there.” She said, frustration painting her words.
“What do you expect me to do?” Severus huffed.
“We need supplies. Healing potions, bandages, and plenty of them.” Severus regarded her silently before shaking his head.
“You ask too much. If you’re thief can get into the place, you’ll have free pickings. But if you’re caught… I’ll have to oust you as intruders. Understand?” He looked from Rhea to Alim.
“Do you want to take that risk?”
Alim nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
Luckily, the apothecary was not far off. Down another alleyway and into the next street, Severus pointed Alim out to a modest shop made of timber, with a nondescript door under what had to be a gaudy and massive green sign that read Roots and Stems with the symbol of a brewing concoction underneath it. Alim placed a hand on Rhea’s shoulder and said. “If anything happens, just get the hell out. I can take care of myself.”
She sighed, what he asked was hard, but she nodded, “Healing potions and bandages.” She patted his shoulder, and crouched down in the darkness.
The spellsword gave her a grin that showed all was well, and then ducked out of the alleyway and across the moonlit street, appearance as if but a passing shadow from a bird flying overhead. His footsteps were as silent as death under the porch, and in the shadows of the structure, he seemingly vanished. Rhea would only see the door suddenly open after a moment, and remain open for a few very tense minutes. It almost seemed as if someone had perhaps discovered him or he had been captured, before the door closed again. Alim then appeared within the street, as bag of items in tow and a twinkle in his dark eyes..
“And you doubted me,” he said, shaking his head. A potion of healing appeared in his hand, as if he plucked it out of thin air. She smiled at him, relieved and he had made out unscathed.
“Let’s get back to camp.”
Severus led them quickly through the streets of Skingrad and back to the vacant house they had used to slip through. Rhea and Alim were ladened with their pilfered items, making the return trip slow and filled with extra caution. It took them another hour to slip through the house and out the tunnel before the reached the outside.
Rhona turned to Severus then, “And what of the payment?”
He held a finger to his lips, a devilish smile crossing his lips as he stood in the entrance of the tunnel, and said, “I will collect that when it is due.” And he let the vines fall into place, leaving Rhea and Alim to make their rest of the way back to camp with nothing but the graying skies of dawn to light their way. They reached camp not even half an hour later, as the excitement carried them quickly, when they reached the camp, Rhea unpacked the items, careful not to rouse anyone from their. The campfire had dwindled low by then, and she added but a log to keep warm, her thoughts keeping her from sleep.
Alim aided her in the endeavour, keeping silent as she and making sure that everything they had requisitioned from the city was still here. He might be a thief, but he wanted to make sure everyone got their due.
@Rtron
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